 
### BEATEN

### By

### Sam T Willis

### Smashwords Edition

### Copyright 2013 and 2014 Sam T Willis

### License Notes

This book is offered free of DRM. If you bought it, you own it. You're free, and even encouraged, to download it on whatever devices you have, to lend it to your friends, just like a physical book. If you've enjoyed this book, and you haven't purchased a copy for yourself yet, I'd encourage you to do so. Or write me a review, or drop me a line on Twitter or Facebook, and let me know what you thought. Books are meant to be read.

### Table of Contents

Beaten

Chapter 10

Chapter 19

Chapter 29

Chapter 39

Chapter 49

Chapter 59

Chapter 69

Chapter 79

Chapter 89

Chapter 99

Chapter 109

Chapter 119

An Excerpt from Rappaccini's Project

About the Author

### Chapter 1

I'm sitting in the easy chair I woke up in about an hour ago; I'd say it's noon, or noonish, but I could be wrong. My primary concerns at this time are smoking a cigarette and waiting for a controller on the 360: the perfect Tuesday afternoon. If indeed it is Tuesday. I'm relatively sure it's after noon at least. My buddy Jeff comes in the front door with a bigger stack of mail than usual (bigger in that it exists) and calls out, "One for the idiot in the easy chair."

He spins a letter at me, dead at my face. My hands go up as if to catch it, and it bounces off my forehead, though obviously I let that happen just to be funny. I didn't know anybody had my address. It's got a big seal on the front saying "Official US Business" or something along those lines, and one of those certified mail bands, and it's addressed to Mr. Nathan Werner. It must be important. I finish my cigarette a little slower than necessary while grilling the thing from the outside, like the sheer power of my gaze is going to change its contents before I finally concede to curiosity and rip open the envelope.

Pulling out the crappy little scrap of paper, I hear myself talking before I finish reading it. "...are we at war?"

Dead silence from Johnny and Jeff. It takes a few seconds for me to come to terms with what I've just read, and in that time I don't have much awareness of the world around me. Suddenly I find myself standing with this super flimsy little half sheet of paper crumpled in my left hand, I'm breathing so hard I could blow down a brick house, and all I can hear is my heart pounding. "I said: _are we at fucking war?"_

### Chapter 2

I swing my bokken at Johnny P's face, but he blocks. I couldn't think of a better way to burn off some steam than trying to brain my friends with a wooden sword. I turn it downward to stab at his chest but he shoves it away. He asks me, "So what are you going to do?"

He swings, I block, but it glances off my bokken and clocks me. "Wrist. Again." He gives me an obligatory five second window to recover from the pain and make sure I can still move my left hand, then we start up again. "I'm supposed to go into their office in Washington tomorrow to get some briefing or something. I figure I'll feed them every excuse I can think of, tell them every reason why I would be the world's worst soldier, and hope they listen to reason. Maybe I'll cry a little."

I crack Johnny in the side of the leg, not too hard. He winces, sets back up and comes at me before he even declares the hit. "Knee. Again. You really think that'll work?"

I totally misgauge an easy block and catch a bokken across the face hard for my troubles. It rattles my brain, and I consider it excuse enough to forget the question. " _Head._ " The pause for a head shot is a little longer than something on the limbs. I'm used to getting hit, but there's something about a blow to the head that always takes me a minute to come back from. "Again."

Somewhere nearby a car door slams shut. I try to ignore it, hook my bokken around Johnny's and go for the back of his leg. He lifts it over my swing and brings his wooden sword down straight between the two of us, the entire thing sitting inside my guard. He pauses for a fraction of a second for dramatic effect, and I spin away. There are footsteps behind me. The gate opens. I come around full speed with a one handed swing, but Johnny blocks it. He's on his game today. Finishing my spin, I see the guy that's approaching. He looks like an army guy, like a plastic one, with his hair cut so close you can't tell what color it is and his jaw so square you would swear he had chin implants. He's smiling.

I stop dead and make eye contact with the guy. Johnny stabs me in the gut for forgetting about him, then stops as well. I cough. Mr. Army scratches his head and calls out, "Don't stop on my account. I was enjoying it."

I stand myself up and hold my bokken in front of me like I'd actually do anything with it. "I'm going to have to ask you to leave my property. I don't have to deal with you people until tomorrow."

"It's not your property." He walks the rest of the way over. "Your name is Werner, the guy that owns the place is named Brzezowski. My name is Hartley. Special Operative Allen Hartley." He sticks his hand out.

I look down on it, but I'm holding a bokken in my right hand so I have an excuse not to take it. "You guys get me tomorrow afternoon. Today is mine. Please leave me alone."

He looks over my shoulder at Johnny, who's dead silent and probably shooting eye lasers of hate at him, then back at me. "I just wanted to come by and give you an idea of exactly what you're going to be looking at when you report for duty."

"And I just wanted to try to hit my friend in the face with a wooden sword. You can talk to me tomorrow. I assume there's a pretty strict limit on my free time now. I'd like to keep it for myself."

His hand drops, then he stuff it in his pocket. "Very well. I guess I'll see you around, kid." He turns and walks away. Once he puts a hand on the gate I spin around, slashing the bokken at Johnny. Even then, he manages to block it. Freaking guy is on his game today.

### Chapter 3

"I'm a pacifist. I won't fight. I don't follow orders. I yell back when people yell at me. I do drugs. I don't even know who we're fighting against. I'm too pretty for the army. My lungs have been ravaged by years of smoking. I have a bad knee from an accident with a garage door. I have an insurmountable addiction to caffeine. I'm technically enrolled in college. My parents have money, they're Republicans even. From Connecticut and everything. I don't think I ever even registered for selective service. I was born in Canada. We don't even have a draft going on, I checked the internet. I could be openly gay, if that would help. Or a woman. I get motion sickness. Tone deaf. Color blind. Flat feet. Night terrors. Acid reflux. Violent, contagious, projectile conjunctivitis. Seriously, my eyes will shoot green gunk all over your business."

"Are you quite finished?"

"Herpes?"

"Mr. Werner, you can continue making excuses in to next week if you want to, but the fact is, none of these reasons would disqualify you, even if they were true. You were selected for this program because you match all of the criteria set forth in our profile. You should feel honored, the Director of the Selective Service system made the final selections herself."

"What the hell skills could I possibly have to offer the army? Air Hockey?"

"Ahem. Not the Army, Mr. Werner. The Department of Homeland Security." He licks his finger, picks up a thick file that I have to assume is mine from his ridiculously messy and overcrowded desk, and begins flipping through it. "You're an American born male, under the age of twenty six, and in good physical condition, the smoking notwithstanding. You're not currently matriculated in a degree program, you're unmarried, and you have a well documented psychological history. The report also highlights the fact that you are left handed."

"That's _it_? I can point you to a dozen lefties! Just give me an internet connection."

"You have been chosen by your country. This is a great opportunity for you. The file I have in front of me paints a picture of a troubled, directionless young man. We can offer you financial stability, a direction in life, and the knowledge that you will be serving a purpose much greater than yourself."

"Look, lady..."

"My name Percival Zogby, young man, and it is in your best interest not to antagonize me."

"Percival? I'm being drafted by a clown named Percival. Best day of my life, I swear to God."

He lets the thick file flop down on his lap loudly, interrupting the sentence I had no intention of finishing. "You will learn respect, Mr. Werner." He's not yelling. He's got the kind of voice where it doesn't seem like he even could if he tried, but he sounds like he means business all the same. "You will benefit from this program, whether you wish to or not. Your alternative is a lengthy prison sentence for dereliction of duty, a conviction which will follow you for the rest of your life, effectively eliminating all but the most menial career paths. I've prepared an informational packet for you, which contains the currently relevant details of your assignment. You needn't bring anything to boot camp save the clothes on your back."

I stand up. I don't figure I'm going to fight the weird secretary or anything, but this aggression will not stand. "Listen, you fascist: you can't pull this on me, I'm not stupid. I don't have to fight if I don't want to. This is a democracy."

"Not for you it isn't. Welcome to the SSPO."

I wish I had taken some law classes.

### Chapter 4

I drive home in Johnny's car, a little grey piece of crap with a dumb yellow stripe running all the way around it, my heart pounding in my ears. I guess it makes sense the excuses didn't work. Pretty hard to have a successful draft if any idiot can talk his way out of it. Every mile of the drive home makes the hopeless madness of the situation feel even more real, and by the time I'm turning onto my street nothing seems real but my inevitable, impending death in some third world country. When I get to the house the only car in the driveway is Chelsea's. Jeff's girlfriend. I park in the street to leave her an escape route if she needs one later.

I'm in the house on autopilot and heading straight for the fridge. She's in the kitchen cooking something. Cooking real food, something Italian. What is she, a crazy person? Out of courtesy I toss my cigarette down the garbage disposal before opening the fridge. A few moments of awkward silence pass before she speaks. "Jeff told me about the draft thing. That, um, I'm sorry."

"Yeah." Now I've got a beer and verified that the in-house supply is sufficient to deprive me of conscious thought before the night is through, as long as I don't have to share much. "It sucks." I don't know what else to say to the girl. This is like the third time I've been in a room with her with no Jeff around. It seems like she can sense my social awkwardness.

"I'm making eggplant parm. There's plenty, if you want some. It might make you feel better to have a real meal."

She's not looking at me anymore, having turned her focus back to the bowl of yellow glop and the second bowl of powdery stuff. I crack the beer open and take a long pull. "Thanks, but I'm thinking I want to be as unhealthy as possible when I get there. Maybe they'll take one look at me and kick me out. Or maybe I'll have a heart attack in basic training."

Her hands stop with the dunking. "Don't say things like that. You could really...."

"Again, thanks for the concern." I can't let her finish her sentence. "But I'm not too worried about it. There's no war going on. The dangerous thing about being in the army is the enemy, not the army itself. No enemy? No big deal."

"You're not taking this seriously. You could die. There's supposed to be something brewing in South America right now, maybe they're...." The front doorknob turns, and Chelsea goes back to prepping the eggplant. I go back to drinking my beer and pretending I wasn't talking to her. Jeff steps into a silent house a second later.

### Chapter 5

I end up eating the eggplant at the table with the two of them, spending most of the dinner trying to pretend I'm being silent because I have three beverages (a beer, a glass of wine and a cup of water) and a plate full of food to contend with. Jeff's in a surprisingly good mood, something we'll all probably have to pay for later. He's pontificating. "So you don't _need_ a degree to stand out. In fact, that hurts you, because you just look the same as every other resume they get. They want to see something real on the first three lines now, something that says you've spent your time in the world instead of in a classroom."

I'm not touching the subject. I exist in a limbo between the educated and uneducated. Halfway through my junior year at UMBC I had myself an existential crisis starting with failing Differential Equations and ending with me completely unwilling to become an adult and having to take a leave of absence from school. Chelsea, on the other hand, is firmly entrenched in her undergraduate studies, and Jeff has never so much as attempted community college, despite picking up the application forms on at least ten different occasions. She happens to disagree with him on this particular subject. "Without a degree you stand out in the wrong way. What if–"

He cuts her off. "I wasn't finished. You just have to be able to demonstrate that you've learned more than you would in college, and that you learned it by living it, which makes it more valuable than learning it from a book. A lot of schools now are starting to realize this and they'll give credit for life experience, so you can get a real degree based on the real knowledge you've built up through your life." Here it comes. The point. The beginning of the end of a reasonably pleasant night. "You just need to be able to pay a fee based on credit hours. They'd probably pretty much give me a master's if I could pay for it. If someone would loan me a little money."

He goes from explaining why degrees are worthless to asking his girlfriend to buy him one in under a minute. Jeff's bullshitting prowess never ceases to amaze me. But, since he comes up with about three schemes to make something of himself without putting any effort into it every week it's not exactly impressing Chelsea. "Real companies don't take those schools seriously, Jeff. I'd help you with tuition if we were talking about a real school." He's out of his chair now. I finish my drink quickly and head for the bathroom so I can at least miss a little of the fight.

### Chapter 6

I sit back on a mattress on the floor in Jeff's room. The arguing hit a lull a little while ago and lured me into a false sense of security. Now they're fighting again and I'm trapped, it would be too awkward for me to sneak out. Smoking a cigarette and rolling a J back and forth between my fingers, I wonder why she bothers with him. They're practically standing on top of me. He shouts, "Fine, go back to your school with all your rich friends! Abandon me like you always do!" I wonder why I bother with him. Guy throws a hissy fit on a daily basis.

The fight moves out into the hallway. How considerate of them. I spark the J and grind my cigarette to death, trying to decide what I hate more, the person Jeff has turned into over the last couple of years, or the draft director who decided that I get to die in some secret war that may or may not be going on. I decide I hate the war a little more about six seconds before Jeff rushes back in, looking around the room all frantically. He's shouting back at Chelsea in the hall and looks like he doesn't even notice I'm here.

"I don't need you. I don't need anything you've given me. Take your money, take your lies." He stops, staring at his table-turned-desk, "take your god damn computer, too!"

Jeff reaches over, picks up the old-style CRT monitor off the desk without unplugging it first and stomps back out of the room. The ancient computer plugs pop free. I lean up.

"What the hell are you doing?"

It takes me far too long to stand up and make it to the doorway. Well after the crash and the scream. I stand in the doorway; Jeff is in front of me, looking furious and proud of himself at the same time. Chelsea is on the floor, the CRT in front of her, holding her leg, crying and looking at me.

What the hell am I supposed to do?

### Chapter 7

"Just run, man."

Johnny P passes me a J from his seat at the computer the next afternoon. Chelsea left in the middle of the night. I hope she didn't have to go to the hospital. "You think I haven't thought of that? The dilemma there is: how much worse could the army be than prison? I mean, aren't they basically the same thing? Just a place to hold someone that they don't want to be and make them do things they don't want to do."

He swings his head around to look at me. "So you're just gonna shoot random people for them? You're gonna be one of their mindless drones because you're afraid Bubba might violate your orifices?"

Puff, puff and it's down to a nub. I put it out and save the last bit for more desperate times. "One: thanks for the image. Two: hell no. I'm not going to shoot anybody. I'm going to do my pushups, keep my mouth shut and pretend to be the worst shot in the world."

Jeff walks in the front doors and my stomach turns a little bit. "You probably already are the worst shot in the world."

"Thanks for the endorsement." I hate my friends. They seem to hate me, too.

"Just saying. Get some hand-eye coordination in a hurry or you're just going to end up shooting yourself over and over."

"Don't think I haven't thought of that, too."

Johnny chimes back in. "Wouldn't try it. They had enough of that in 'Nam. They'll just jack you full of pain killers, put you on crutches and send you back to get shot some more. They're ruthless, man. They don't take no for an answer."

"I don't think so. They're bastards, but they're still fundamentally human."

"No, seriously, I read about it online. Guys get their legs blown off, they give them a quick psyche test, put them on pegs and send them out for a tour. They don't even tell the families until they come back like two years later, if they come back at all."

I can't give the idea much credit, because Johnny reads ridiculous stuff on the internet at an alarming rate, but this one's a little scary. "I bet they only do that to the guys who really piss them off. I'll keep my head down and they'll leave me alone."

Jeff smirks. "Maybe some references could convince them to put you on that list anyways."

I'm on my feet. I don't remember standing up. "What the hell is wrong with you, man? I'm going to war; maybe you could pretend not to be an asshole about it!"

"I saw you looking at her."

Oh, Jesus. He's going to beat me to death for an imaginary affair. "What the hell does that mean?"

"The other night. You and Chelsea. Don't think I don't know what you two do."

"What? You're delusional, man. You _know_ I would never do anything like that. I've actually got some integrity, unlike you. She doesn't even like me."

"If I see that again, I will kill you. I will choke the life out of you and make her watch." There's no smirk any more. I should really just let this go, but that's not something I'm good at. If he's going to be this unreasonable I almost _have_ to be a dick.

"You don't listen to a word I say, do you? You don't even listen to a thing _you_ say!"

"I heard you. It sounded like you were asking for a beating."

"What happened to you, man?"

"All of you bastards turned on me, that's what happened. We used to be friends."

"You live in a fantasy world, man. Nobody is turning on anyone."

"Have fun getting shot." He turns and walks back out the door.

### Chapter 8

I pass the next two weeks in isolation, and suddenly it's my last night of freedom. At five am I have to report for basic training, and the end of my life. I'm driving Johnny's car what I'd like to think is aimlessly. I've got no friends to hang out with. Jeff hates me for reasons he continually makes up, Johnny practically went into a coma after he saw us arguing, and Chelsea hates me for being too much of a coward to back her up when she needed it.

I can't really think of a better way to leave things.

My family heard the news second hand, an errant phone call from some military douche, making sure I was going to show up. I've been ducking calls and deleting voicemails ever since. It's not something that I could talk to my mother about. Not a chance in hell.

No other affairs left to put in order. It's sad. Twenty-two years old and a tour of duty won't even be a blip on anyone's radar. Maybe this will get me going, like Zogby said. Maybe I'll be motivated when I come back. I could finish school, get a job, become a person. Maybe I'll even quit smoking pot. Maybe I'll quit smoking entirely.

That reminds me. I light up a cigarette. May I should give myself nic fits in basic training, it could be a fun, nonviolent protest. I think I have principles. I'm a pacifist. I hate guns. I hate Republicans. I hate the army, soldiers, and "Support the Troops" ribbons. What the hell am I planning to do? Am I planning something at all? It's hard to tell. They don't let you get away with being a pacifist in the army. They beat it out of you. I can take a beating, I think. I'll just have to take a beating.

Over and over.

The next song on the CD I'd never play with anyone else in the car comes on, and I turn up the volume. I do my best to finish my cigarette during the opening instrumental, then flick it out the window the second the vocals start. Yeah, so I sing in the freaking car, you want to fight about it? For the next four minutes the army, or whatever it is, doesn't exist. All there is is my voice, more off key than I'd like to acknowledge, belting out: "Oh my friends, my friends!" I round the block instead of pulling into my driveway. It's building to the crescendo and I'd pretty much have to kill myself if someone I knew heard me. "Don't ask me what your sacrifice was for! Empty chairs at empty tables..." By the time I come back around we're on the applause. I roll up the window, pull into my driveway, and put the car in park. As I turn the key, there's a disturbing feeling of finality in the air. I slam the door shut, spit in the grass, and head inside, then it's up to my room to not sleep.

### Chapter 9

It's morning now. I'm standing in a single file line as straight as I can at this ungodly hour and trying not to draw attention to myself. The longer I can go without anyone remembering my name, the better. Just keep my head down. And stand up straight, too, I guess. There's this big, sweaty Italian drill sergeant named Frank going up and down the line, spewing stereotypical drill sergeant crap, trying to convince us that we're female homosexual fly larvae, and dirty ones at that. I struggle not to yawn.

He stops in front of me. I have this sudden, inescapable fear that I just rolled my eyes involuntarily. "You! Blond piece of garbage, what is your name?"

"Nathan Werner."

He comes in real close, maybe four inches from kissing me. I can feel his breath, see his sweat and smell his body odor. We're practically best friends. "You _will_ append the word 'Sir' onto everything you say, maggot! It will be the first and last word out of your mouth, as well as any other word I choose, or you will eat a pound of dirt for every time you forget. Is that clear?"

"Sir, yes, sir!" My stomach turns as I say it. I might puke if I say it again. I really do have a problem with authority.

"Then I ask you again, what is your name, you dickless son of a bitch?"

"Sir, Nathan Werner, sir!" Willpower giving out. Please move on before I do something stupid. For the love of God, move on.

"And what is your purpose here?"

"Sir," deep breath. "To keep my head down, sir, my mouth shut, sir, and get home as quickly as possible, sir!" It barely registers until after it's already out.

A big, sweaty, ham-like fist collides with my jaw and I'm on the ground before my head starts ringing. Indignation replaces misguided mischief. "You hit me! You can't hit me!"

He kicks me in the chest and I'm lying face up on the ground. The sun is shining, burning my eyes out of my head. He puts a foot on my chest and bends down close to my face, putting just enough weight on my ribs to leave a permanent boot print on my chest. "You will hold your fucking head high, maggot, when you are the first soldier on the front line. You will scream out battle cries in the name of this great nation, and you will not go home until your body bag has been properly sealed, documented, and shipped. Your life is over, soldier. You will forget what humor is, forget your family, you will forget your god-damn name if I order you to."

He pushes himself up, off my chest, and I take a second to be impressed by the tenacity of my rib cage. I start to push myself up, and he kicks me in the side. I don't give him the satisfaction of a yelp or scream or anything while I fall over sideways. This just became a rivalry. I look dead in his eyes as I push myself up, and he smiles back. He's not taking me seriously yet, he thinks he's beaten a thousand guys like me. I shoot him mental messages. "You pissed me off. You'll never break me now." It seems like he gets them. He buries a fist in my stomach. This Frank is a very strong man. I'm not going to enjoy taking these beatings.

"Fairies! Five laps out, around the barracks, back here and around the flagpole. Move!"

### Chapter 10

It's dinner, day one. There aren't enough seats in the mess hall for me to separate myself from the pack, so I'm forced to squeeze in between a hefty number named Mackenzie and this black guy whose name I don't know. People have been calling him Mr. Cosby, which he seems to hate. Across from me is a guy named Gilbert, he's a little older than the rest of us, his hair is already going grey in spots. He seems like a human being for the most part. He also seems to like to hear himself talk. "What the hell were you thinking this morning?"

I swallow a mouthful of fried something. It's either chicken or fish. Or maybe chicken fried steak. It just tastes like a mouthful of breadcrumbs and salt. "I'm not so good with authority figures. Don't really have a whole lot of control over it."

He picks up his roll, then puts it back down. "You're going to have to get some control over it, man, or they're going to kill you. It's not hard to tell what they want to hear from you. Just say it and get on with your life, you don't have to mean it."

"I wish it were that easy, man." A hand reaches down from behind me and grabs my portion of Jell-o. I didn't want it, but I have to react anyways. It's the principle of the thing, and I assume we're in the middle of building a hierarchy like they do in prison TV shows. I twist in my seat. "What the hell, man?"

This guy BJ is standing over me. He's tall and skinny and holding my Jell-o with a smile on his face. "We've already seen what you look like in a fight, Werner. Let it go or get your ass handed to you."

I ponder my options. I've been in fights before, fights where I've fought back or even won, but usually I wasn't covered in bruises and sore all over before they started. You win this round, BJ. "Fine, take it if it means that much to you. Asshole."

"Oh, I will. Pussy." He walks away and I turn back to what's left of my food. Suddenly I'm not hungry any more. This is going to be a long...month? Year? Millenium? However long this stupid thing is.

### Chapter 11

After dinner Frank comes around, marches us over to the infirmary and lines us up in some order he must have made up over dinner. I get to be second in line, behind this big guy named Ian who hasn't said a word that I've heard all day. Gil is right behind me, and I haven't bothered looking any farther back in the line. I'd probably get spit on if I did. A guy in a white coat and Special Operative Allen Hartley lead Ian in first and close the heavy metal door behind him, leaving us all standing there waiting for something to happen.

I call back to Gil without turning around, "Any clue what this is about?"

He sighs. "They've got a sound booth right by the other side of the wall. I'm guessing hearing tests."

Now I turn. "And how in the hell would you know what's on the inside of that building?"

"They took me through the place a couple weeks ago. I'm a doctor – well, an intern. I got an orientation before you guys."

"How special for you." I turn around. "They show you any other stuff during your orientation? Anything that could actually be useful?"

"Sorry, just a crash course in field medicine. Nothing that would interest you."

"They tell you any secret ways to get dismissed? Like, if I go in there and I'm totally deaf do they send me home?"

"They know you're not deaf. And no, they didn't tell me any secret ways to get sent home. We're in this for the long haul. Get used to it."

"You're no fun, you know that? Can't even let a guy dream."

Ten minutes pass, then I'm ushered into the infirmary by the guy in the white lab coat and Allen freaking Hartley. Hartley points me over to the "sound booth," which looks like a giant safe with one glass wall. "Just take a seat in there; it'll only be a few minutes."

I'm not interested in getting another beating, so in I go, and sit down of the uncomfortable three-legged stool. Hartley slams the door shut behind me. He looks a little sad.

I turn myself to face out the glass wall, which points me into another room. The guy in the white coat is looking over an instrument panel, and another guy is standing next to him, a familiar-looking guy. No sign of Ian. He must have gone out another way. There's a big set of headphones that looks like they came from about 1960 handing on a hook on the wall. I grab them and slap them on my head. Right away I hear voices.

"Special batch for 02-002, same as the last one." I know that voice. It's coming from the familiar looking guy, who happens to be Percival Zogby. I hate me some Percival Zogby. "Get through with them so we can get to work on the control group."

He turns around and looks right at me, and his face says I wasn't supposed to put the headphones on so soon. I smile back at him, it probably looks pretty gruesome through the bruising. He looks down at his clipboard, then back at me. "Mr. Nathan Werner, can I have your age?"

"Twenty-two."

"Height?"

"Five ten."

"One hundred and seventy six centimeters. And your weight?"

"In metric?"

"American units will do just fine."

"Like 170 maybe. Maybe a little less?"

"Very good." A sound catches my ear – it's like the high pitched buzz you hear when you've got an old TV with the volume turned all the way down. "Please take off the headset at this time and sit in silence for the next five minutes. We will be running a few tests."

I reach for the headphones, then think twice. "Total silence? Like I can't even hum or anything?"

"Total silence, please. It is a sound proof booth for a reason."

I sigh and pull off the headphones. The ringing is a tiny bit louder without them on. Sound proof my eye. I sit in silence for the prescribed five minutes until they dismiss me and bring Gil in. Weirdest hearing test I've ever been through.

### Chapter 12

I pass the next three weeks in hell. One thing I can say for being in the Special Security Project: I'm in the best shape of my life. Minus the bruises. On this particular morning I'm rattling off the last of my allotment of pushups before I stand up, relatively straight but certainly not at attention. I don't do that. Frank sees this through the back of his head and tears ass over to me. "What, pray tell, do you call this little performance of yours?"

"Sir, pushups, sir."

"Those most certainly were not pushups, little girl! You will drop and give me pushups until I feel that you have sufficiently mastered the form!"

Yeah, sure. "Sir, no, sir!"

"Did you just refuse a direct order, cock sucker?"

"Sir, yes, sir. It was a stupid order, sir." This has become a routine; we go through it once or twice a day. I'm telling him "you can punch me if you want, you're not winning this argument" with my face.

He grabs my hair. I grab his hand. He jerks my head down and knees me in the face. The world shakes on its axis. He does it again. There's something about a blow to the head that rattles me, and I let go of his hand involuntarily. Everything looks vaguely purple. He does it one more time, then shoves my head sideways and lets go. I stumble to the left but keep my balance, then stand up, look in Frank's direction (approximately, anyways) and spit half a gallon of blood at the ground near his feet. This draws "Oo's" from my usually zombie-like soldier buddies.

Frank does not look impressed by my show of bravado. He doesn't seem to be capable of giving an inch, but I know I showed him up good. He's used to me falling down, this standing thing has him madder than usual. "Think you're pretty good at taking a punch, Werner?" That's the first time he's said my actually name. "Am I supposed to respect you now? I've got news for you, shitlips. No one respects stupidity. In the _real_ Army, we respect strength. _Real_ strength. If you want my respect you're going to have to kick my ass." Oh, how I wish I could. Lose 200 pounds of fat and muscle to drop into my weight class and maybe we'll give it a shot. "But be warned, I will kill you if you fail. Understood?"

I'm a glutton for punishment. Or he's shown a sign of weakness, and I can't help but attack it. "Sir, I don't need to beat you, sir. Just show you that you can't beat me, sir."

He grabs me by the throat with his massive pseudo-hand and drives me over backwards and to the ground, pinning me there by the wind pipe. I do my best to stifle the coughing and keep the air inside while my face turns as red as a cooked lobster. "I don't need to beat you. You're a walking corpse."

He lets me go and stands up. He addresses the line of zombies. "I want everyone here to take the nastiest shits you can muster in the latrines this week. Miss. Rub it on the walls for bonus credit. Mr. Werner here is going to clean them. Now I'm going to go have some breakfast. You all, on the other hand, are going to run laps until I get back. We will then resume pushups until I am convinced that each and every one of you can do them perfectly, every time. Thank Mr. Werner for me."

### Chapter 13

"Just give up this 'You can't break me' act, Nate. You've got nothing to prove. They'll kill you. Or throw you in jail."

Gil. My supposed war buddy. One of the few people here that has retained some semblance of the personality he came in with. He's got compassion and a missing spine. I figure he, as the field medic, doesn't want to deal with patching me up. "I'm not trying to prove anything. I'm just not a soldier. Never will be."

He leans over towards my cot. "Then pretend to be, man. This is their game, we're just playing it. Don't you want to get home when this is all over?"

"Word around base is we're being groomed for suicide anyways. What's the point of being a good soldier if I'm just going to get shot to bits by the natives or something?"

"Nobody knows anything about where we're going. Anyone who thinks they do is delusional."

"Which is what makes me think they're right. Every one of us was supposedly handpicked by the Selective Service Director. There's no real draft going on, you know that, right? That means there's shouldn't be a Selective Service Director. It's a fake position, just like the stupid excuses they made for drafting us were fake. Why secretly force people to join a secret fighting force? You ever get any mail from your family? I don't. We've been disappeared. Suicide mission."

"I don't have a family to write me. Most of the guys around here don't. You already knew that."

"All the more reason to choose these guys."

"My point is, it makes sense we're not getting letters. No one here thinks it's weird but you. You want to test it? Write one of your buddies back home. Make it something you know they'll have to reply to. I guarantee you get a letter and shut your mouth real quick."

BJ walks up behind Gil. He's made it clear that he's the king of the assholes around these parts. I think he's ready to snap. "No one's gonna write you, Werner. They're glad you're gone. They're rid of you. They're just crossing their fingers until they get that letter that you got one in the back of the head. If you'd like, I can get them the good news sooner rather than later."

"Keep your pants on. Only soldiers die in the army. I'm not a soldier."

"God damn right, you're not." He walks away. I size him up as he goes. I could take him, if I was desperate. And got the drop on him. And he was already injured. And sleeping. I hate that guy.

### Chapter 14

It's the middle of the night, hours before dawn and hours after lights out, and I'm awake. I don't know why. There's a super quiet, high pitched ringing in my ears. I can't tell if it's real. My eyes open themselves after ages of pretending I'll fall asleep any minute and I sit up in bed. The only light in the room is coming through the barred windows. A dozen cots down from me someone else is awake, sitting up in his bed. I can't tell who it is from this distance and I haven't memorized the seating chart for the damn place. So, like an idiot, I get out of bed and walk over.

By the time I'm a few yards away I can tell it's Ian, and I'm suddenly torn between going back to bed and starting up a conversation with my fellow insomniac. I wonder who I was expecting it to be. I'm sure I'd be plenty excited to have a midnight chat with BJ or Benjy or a dozen others. My self resolves itself to carry out the plan of action, even though I'm pretty sure he hasn't noticed me, and I complete my approach. Four feet seems close to enough to whisper to the guy. "Can't sleep either?"

Wow. That sounded stupid. He jumps a little—clearly he didn't know I was coming—and looks at me. He's rubbing his temples. "Do you hear it too?

So I'm not crazy. Score one for Nate. "The ringing? Yeah. It's driving me nuts."

He turns away, smiling. "Ringing? Right. Good answer."

Or I am crazy. Hopefully not as crazy as he is, any way you slice it. "I don't know what that means."

"They're talking to us." He looks down and stops rubbing his head. "They have much more to say to you and me. The others are boring to them."

I sigh. Maybe he's not awake at all. "You're talking crazy, man. You know that, right?"

His smile disappears, and suddenly he looks super groggy. "What? Oh...sorry. I guess...never mind. I'm just not the most coherent this early. Or late. Whatever it is."

"Sure. Don't worry about it. Go back to sleep."

"Right. Sorry. Take care of yourself, Nate."

I walk away slowly wondering what the hell that was. And when the hell anyone but Gil started using my first name.

### Chapter 15

A row of SSPO cadets that stretches off into the distance fires their automatic rifles at an unmoving set of dummies who can't fight back. I point my gun in the same general direction as everyone else, but never fire. I hate guns. It's loud as hell. I never hear Frank come up behind me but he has no problem making himself heard over the din. "Hold your fire!"

The shooting stops. It's not yet clear how much hearing I've lost. I lower my rifle and turn around. "Sir, I was just getting into it, sir. Can't we start up again, sir?"

He puts his hand on my gun barrel, holding it down like he expects me to try to shoot him. That would have been a pretty good plan. "Werner, either you're an even worse god damn shot than I expected you to be, you're the dumbest son of a bitch on the planet and can't work a god damn rifle or you're about to have a big god damn problem. Which is it?"

"Sir, I hate guns, sir. Give me a sword, a stick, a baseball bat or a big rock and I'll beat that inorganic bad guy senseless, but I'm not shooting. Period. Sir."

BJ pipes up from a few guys down. "Maybe we should let him have a fistfight with the dummy while we do target practice, sir."

"Shut your mouth, Nancy. The only one who kills my bitches is me, and I do it nice and slow. Now, Mr. Werner, it seems you know better than the top military minds behind the greatest armed forces in the god damned world, eh? Care to show us how to defeat the terrorists with sticks and baseball bats?"

"Sir, it doesn't take a man to flick a switch or pull a trigger. That's kid stuff. It takes a man to do it up close, eye to eye."

He gets in real close, eye to eye. "And how many men have you killed up close?" He's spitting on my face with every consonant. Seems a little forced. "How do we know you're a man?"

"I'd like to think that it takes a man to put up with you and keep a clear head, sir."

He rips the gun out of my hands and kicks me in the balls. No ceremony to it. I double over and puke up my lunch. He grabs the back of my head while I'm coughing up bits of Salisbury steak that got caught in the back of my throat and shoves me face down into the vomit covered ground. "I'd like to think that right there is the test, you pillow biter." He grinds my face into my dusty, acidic lunch. "You are going to die a coward."

I spit out a chunk of vomit-soaked mud, turning my head to the side to speak. "Threats lose their effectiveness if you use them too often and never think to follow through."

He stands up slowly. "You forgot to say 'sir'." A boot hits me in the face and everything goes black.

### Chapter 16

I've got guard duty. In a military base used exclusively for training two hundred miles in from the coast on the continental United States, hundreds of miles from anything of any significant strategic importance. It's night, this particular night is my birthday, and I get to spend it sitting back to back in a little glass room with another guy, and waiting for nothing. Losing six hours of sleep and gaining six hours of boredom. At least I have Ian, the only cadet worse off than I am, to keep me company. He's been shivering all night, it's barely what you'd call cold, his back is shaking up against mine. Dead silent, too, which I suppose is the best I could hope for. Except it's boring. And I have a big mouth. "Anything interesting in your life?"

I feel his back turn half way. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

I half turn in the opposite direction. "It means I'm bored, and I want to know if you have anything interesting or entertaining to say about yourself to pass the time so I don't lose my mind."

He turns back, then over to the same way I turned, with a little pause in the middle. We're not facing each other, but it's closer. "You want interesting? I'm the Angel of Death. How's that for interesting?"

I turn back to my original position. "Forget it. I should have known there was no point in talking to you."

He stands up quickly, grabs my collar on the way and hoists me up, despite me not helping one bit. I twist to face him and he does the same to me. His eyelids are twitching–back and forth or up and down, just shaking really fast. "You will speak with respect in the presence of the divine!"

"Seriously, dude? You don't think I get enough of that already?"

His eyes quit twitching. Suddenly the veins in his face start popping out, going from blue to dark blue to black as night, like there's a web of tar running just under his skin. The next instant his shoulder is in my stomach, and I'm going backwards through the glass wall. An alarm goes off what sounds like a thousand miles away, and I squirm out from under the self-proclaimed Angel of Death. My head is rattled, but I've gotten good at shaking out the cobwebs. He's on me quickly and ducks my punch quicker. He grabs my shirt, jerks me forward, then abruptly lets me go and catches the massive arm of Frank by the wrist. In what seems like one motion, he shoves me back with a foot, twists Frank's wrist around and drives him to the ground.

"Freeze!"

A security officer I've never seen before runs on scene with a rifle leveled at Ian and gets his gun jabbed back into his face, then ripped out of his hands. Ian swings the gun around like a club and clocks another armed officer in the face. I duck under the swing and drive my shoulder into his gut, but he jams the butt of the rifle down between my shoulder blades, putting me on my face. While I lie there wondering why I was trying to help in the first place, things get louder. It's a big fight, and I don't really get a sense of it until I push myself up. More armed officers get their asses kicked, then eventually the commotion is done. I'm up by then, and Ian is in cuffs with three guys holding him steady.

Hartley is there, dressed like all the other guards but without a gun. He's rubbing his bloody knuckles. It looks like he damn near put his fist through Ian's face. There are a dozen more guards picking themselves up or rubbing their injured body parts, and I'm wondering where the hell they all came from. Frank is double most of the way over and holding his arm like it's broken. "I want him locked up and chained to a chair!"

I can't help but snicker, even though it hurts my chest to do it. "So, Frank, does this mean that you _respect_ that psycho?"

He reaches out and grabs the front of my shirt with his good hand. "Take this little punk in, too! He saw it happen. Torture him, for all I care. Actually, torture him, please."

From behind, someone cuffs me immediately, like he was just waiting for the word. I don't struggle, I'm too tired and too many parts of me have stopped working. No need to fight everyone on the base. I already saw how poorly that went for Ian. They shove me down the path.

### Chapter 17

"They're going to get me."

Ian's across the dark, windowless room from me. From what I can see he looks basically back to normal, other than being chained to a metal chair that's bolted to the concrete floor. I saw him fight, but I still think it's overkill. He sounds approximately as crazy as I figure he is. I'm simply cuffed to my bolted down chair, but a captive audience nonetheless. I make conversation. It went so well last time. "They already got you, buddy. Doesn't look like they're going to let you go anywhere for a while, either."

He rattles the chains like Jacob Marley. "They've tried this before, but it never never works, not for me. They got you first, they'll get us one by one, and they'll come for me last. They're waiting for me. They're very patient."

"Why would they want you, crazy man? They starting a new battalion, all crazies, all the time, to crazy the terrorists to death?"

"Angels of Death."

"Right. The whole divinity thing. Forgot about that. What army wouldn't want heaven's incarnations of death to use as a weapon?"

"Exactly."

"Right. At least it makes sense to someone. Have fun with your delusions. I'll just be over here."

"They can see inside us. The potential. They'll coax it out one by one. All very special...."

"That's pretty much standard operating procedure for an evil military organization: turn everyone into heartless killers, right? Best practices dictate that they'd try to do it faster than one by one, though. That's just bad business."

He shakes his head vigorously, then his chains slightly more vigorously. It's loud. They locked him up good, though. No amount of crazy-fueled adrenaline will break him out. "No point in talking to you. Too late to save you." He starts jerking all around, violently as hell. It's making my head hurt. "I'm the only one left who can stop them. Hope they cannot see it. Hope they miss it."

"Doesn't matter if they see it or not, old buddy. They got you. You ain't saving anybody now. Not that I'm really doing much better. But I don't claim to be, which is what puts me in a better position. They'll probably toss me in jail for the next few years, but at least I won't have to kill anyone. Probably just get shanked for one reason or another."

_Snap_. The crazy bastard breaks off the bolts holding his chair down. He can't seem to get through the chains, though, so he ends up tipping over face-down onto the concrete floor. The blow to the head doesn't quiet him. "You will! _You will kill everyone, don't you see?_ "

He sounds more panicked than angry, like he's begging me to kill everyone. The big metal door to the room swings open and two guards come in with a hand cart. They're dead silent as the pick him up, chair and all, like a bag of potatoes, and put him on the cart. They totally ignore me while the wheel the lunatic out of the room, with him screaming the whole time, " _Not me, him! He's the one! The Angel of Death! He'll kill you all! He told me! Kill them all, boy!_ _KILL US ALL!_ "

### Chapter 18

I sit alone in the big, dark room, handcuffed to the chair and not killing anyone, despite my orders, until the big metal door opens again, and in tromps Percival Zogby with a nice leather binder. He turns on the lights and I go blind for about ten seconds. My mouth still seems to work, though. "Feel like undoing the handcuffs? I think the weeks of relentless beatings have proven that I'm not going to pummel anyone."

"You'd be surprised."

"Great."

"Mr. Werner, what, exactly, precipitated this incident between you and Mr. Kensington?"

"Who?"

"...Ian. Mr. Ian Kensington."

"He has a last name? How about that? What precipitated the 'incident,' you ask? He hates me as much as everyone else does, and we were stuck inside a little glass room together for four hours?"

He scribbles something in the notebook in his binder, taking a seat at a small metal table a few feet in front of me. "So, am I to understand that he started the confrontation?"

"Unless you count talking trash as starting it."

More scribbling. "Did you notice anything strange about his appearance before the incident?"

Black veins pumping tar through his face. "...you don't remember me, do you?"

"Irrelevant, Mr. Werner. If you could answer the questions in a timely fashion, please."

"I basically watched him lose his mind, alright? He was, like, shaking, twitching eyes, yelling incoherent shit, then BAM, he snapped on me."

Write write write. I guess what I have to say is a little more interesting this time. "Anything else you can remember about his appearance?"

He wants me to describe the guy's face filling up with horror movie blood. It is because I know he wants this that I'm never going to mention it. "He looked like he had tiny shards of glass flying all around him around the time he tackled me through the window."

He snaps the book shut. "You have been most helpful, Mr. Werner." He gets up.

"Feel like undoing the cuffs now, Percy?"

He walks over behind me and unlocks the handcuffs. I stand up. He stares me down. "It is in your best interest to keep this whole incident quiet, especially amongst your fellow cadets. This meeting never happened. Mr. Kensington fell ill and had to be removed from the base. Your injuries are unrelated to him."

"No one's going to ask about my injuries."

"All the better. You will report back to your unit and go about business as usual." He opens the binder, pulls out an envelope and hands it to me. "This letter arrived for you several days ago. I would not expect to receive any further communications if I were you."

I eye the letter. Maybe we're not as cut off as I thought. Or maybe they let it through on purpose. Oh well. I stick around in the big room for a few minutes to read it after Zogby heads out.

### Chapter 19

Nate,

Hey. I'm proud of you. I don't know what I would do if I were there. I don't know what to tell you. Stay strong. Don't feel like you have to impress anyone, there or at home. If you're really in danger, just give up. You can always do what they say without giving up your will. You're really doing an amazing job. The whole country is trying to change you. You're winning against them all.

Things aren't nearly as exciting back here. I go home every other weekend, sometimes Jeff comes out here, sometimes we even have fun. Most of the time, he just stays in bed and complains. I know. I'm codependent. I just worry about what will happen to him. He's alienated almost everyone there is to alienate.

Johnny has pretty much disappeared. I heard he had a girlfriend for a little while. He doesn't return anyone's phone calls. I haven't seen him since before you left.

I hope things get better for you. Maybe that Frank will get what's coming to him. When you get home, we can sue them if you want. I talked to a couple pre-law students I know, they think you might have a case. They haven't been allowed to hit cadet for decades. If you could get someone to take a picture of them hitting you, that might be good.

Not that it would be good for you to get hit. Stop getting hit. You might get brain damage. You won't be any fun to talk to if you come back all concussed. Just pretend to do what they say for a while. Don't die.

Love,

Chelsea

### Chapter 20

I keep my head down a little more from there on. The accepted consensus among the other recruits it that Frank put me through the glass, then broke his ulna beating the hell out of me. I don't really care what story they go with. I haven't heard any rumors swirling about Ian. Maybe I'm the more interesting story. Maybe people are just happy to see him go.

I wrote a letter back to Chelsea, even though it'll never make it to her. The one she sent smells like cigarettes and fried chicken. She's a vegetarian nonsmoker. They read everything going in both directions. I wouldn't expect anything less. Never told Gil about the letter. He'd just think it proved him right. He's an idiot. More for being friendly with me than his misplaced optimism. Doesn't he know I'm the Angel of Death? I'm dangerous. That's why the ladies love me.

Not that Chelsea actually meant the "love" in her letter that way. She's just caught up in the concern, and "sincerely" would have looked insincere. No point in getting wound up over nothing. Just lonely up here. Besides, I could never do that to Jeff. Not that there's anything to be done. I'd sure embarrass myself if I ever got convinced otherwise.

Maybe my letter was too friendly. I don't know. She's my friend, right? Even though I'm terrible to her...I don't know how this works. But there's no "this." There's nothing to agonize over. My mind's just overfilled right now.

I sit up in bed. It's pitch black and silent. They probably executed every cricket for insubordination. It's like a sensory deprivation tank in here, just me and the ringing and no Ian to share it with. I hear it all the time now, all day every day, unless we're shooting guns or shouting in unison or otherwise drowning it out. Man, do I ever need to get high. Clear out the mind-pipes. This is the longest I've ever gone since I started. It'll be there when I get back. I just won't know anybody to get it from. Won't have any friends, either. Won't even be able to see Chelsea.

Maybe that's a good thing. I shouldn't be wanting to see her. I'm just stuck on her because she wrote back. I knew she would. She's the only one I could expect to write back. I just thought she hated me. Absence makes the heart grow fonder.

She'll remember when I get back. Unless I'm dead. I'm probably going to die. We ship out soon. I don't know how to survive. I don't know anything. I learned how to do pushups and roll through punches. I didn't learn anything about war.

I'm going to fucking war.

### Chapter 21

They haul us all into this amphitheater room that we don't fill by half. There's a pile of actual soldiers and security officers and men and women in suits on either side of the room. My best buddy Frank is standing in the back, his arm still in a sling. My other best friend, Percy, walks out onto the stage.

"Most of you know me already. For those that don't, my name is Percival Zogby, I work for the Directors of the Selective Service System and Special Security Project Operations. They have informed me that it is now time for you all to learn why you are here." He barely needs the microphone that's been stuck in front of him. There's no crowd noise at all, beyond the occasional throat clearing. "I know you all have been waiting very patiently. Without further ado, Beatrice Conroy."

He gestures to his left and steps back and away from the microphone, clapping as he moves. A few of the dumber zombies in my cohort applaud, but their numbers are small enough that it just sounds pathetic. That makes me smile a bit as I lean back in my chair. It's time to meet my worst enemy, the one that started all this. In my head she looks more demon than person. In real life, she's a short, fat, oldish lady with short, curly grey hair. Her cheeks sag down about an inch past her jaw line, and she's wearing these rimless glasses that do a poor job of looking like they're not glasses at all. I'm sitting up real close, so I can see the whiskers sticking out of her chin and cheeks. She looks like she'd make a really mean nun.

"I'd like to thank you all for coming, but I guess you're something of a captive audience." Her voice has kind of a scratchy smugness to it that tells me she thinks she's pretty funny, but is too caught up in herself to notice that no one is laughing. "I am terribly sorry for the circumstances that brought you all here, but rest assured, you will all be greatly rewarded. You are members of an elite group, the best of the best. You will have received the best training from the best military in the world. You will continue to learn from the brightest minds." She looks at me on one of her passes and seems to pause there for a few seconds. I smirk harder. "There are those of you who will not be able to keep up with the rigors you now face." She goes back to scanning the crowd. "This is not any fault of yours. This program has been designed to weed out the weak of mind and body. It is in its very nature to eliminate the unqualified. If you fail, at least you come away with some measure of skills that put you beyond the rest of society. Even the worst of you will end up giants among men."

"Or total psychopaths." I wince as little as I say it. I don't have the kind of ammo for this fight. Not yet. She looks down at me from her big giant podium.

"Is there something you want to say, young man?"

"No. Never mind. We'll talk later." Not that you have any intention of ever seeing me again.

She shakes her head, dismissing me, and clears her throat. "There is someone else here I'd like to introduce you to. My partner in crime, so to speak." A glimmer of honesty, perhaps? "The Director of Special Security Project Operations for the Department of Homeland Security, and mastermind behind this little experiment, Patrick Hall!"

The enemy has a new name.

His face practically screams power madness. Hammy and red, with a grey and white stubble beard wrapped around a cigar that costs more than my rent. Every time he pulls it out of his mouth with his thick, purple hand I see trails of drool that bridge the gap until he breaks them by flapping his gums. I can't help but hate him, and I haven't even thought about how terribly a person he must actually be yet. "Ladies and gentlemen," he speaks low and slow, like we're children and he's afraid we won't be able to keep up, or perhaps that we'll be frightened by the magical powers his voice holds. "Give yourselves a round of applause."

More idiots obey this order than clapped for Conroy. My heart dies a little. How'd I get lumped in with this crowd of winners? He takes a puff that's probably worth $30, scratches his craggy cheek and starts up again. "You are pioneers. The next generation of American defense, and the reason we are going to stay at the forefront of power in this world. In the age of nanotechnology, AI, and laser guidance, one thing has slowed our progress more than any other." He taps a finger on his head. I can almost hear the hollow thud. "The human mind. All of this new technology is limited by the people who operate it. For years, scientists, engineers and what-have-you have striven to automate.

"They're trying to take you out of every task that they can. Remove fatigue, impatience, attention spans, and reaction time from the equation completely. The human mind is a liability to them." He talks a little faster; he appears to be getting actually excited about his own rhetoric. Maybe if he enjoys himself enough it'll rub off on people. I yawn on purpose, and try to make it as noticeable as possible. He's a little too far up his own ass to see it.

"I want to change all that. There was a time when the human, not the technology, was the driving force behind our success. I'm going to make you all stronger, faster and smarter." We have the technology: we'll make you unstoppable psychopaths like Ian and turn you loose on whoever I want dead. "You will be the first in an army of supermen, revered by your people and feared by the enemy. You will be the very hammer of democracy. How does that sound?"

Real, enthusiastic cheers spring up all around me this time. Everyone is buying it while I force the bile back down my throat. When they start to die down, I raise my hand. Zogby sticks his head out from behind the curtain. "This isn't a question and answer period. You'll have to submit something in writing, which will then be addressed by...."

"Let the boy ask his question." I guess Pat don't know me very well, do he?

"What if I don't want to be a ticking time bomb–err–hammer of democracy?"

"It's normal to be apprehensive." At this point, it seems like he's just trying to sound patronizing. "This is big news. You may feel unequal to the task. You were, however, selected for a reason. Out screening process is extremely thorough..."

"So that story about me being needed because I'm a lefty was an outright lie, then?"

Beatrice steps forward. She's looking more at her hands than at me while she talks. "Due to the extremely sensitive nature of these recruitments, as well as the gravity of the responsibilities that will be given to each recruit, we felt the need to use some discretion when first introducing each of you to your new roles."

"By lying."

Stroke-victim Pat chimes back in, having grown bored of hearing voices other than his own. "I understand that this is all quite nuanced, and not really the appropriate format for this discussion."

"So you're not going to answer, then?"

"I'd be more than willing to have a sit down discussion with you, young man, to address all of your concerns. Unfortunately, at this time, both you and I are on very tight schedules. I'm afraid this is something that's just going to have to wait until after your deployment."

"You're hoping I just die, or lose my mind, so you'll never have to come up with an answer."

"On the contrary. I designed the program myself. I know that you will be able to do just as well as anyone else, if not better. I very much doubt that you, or any of your fine compatriots, will be killed. That is largely the point."

### Chapter 22

Beatrice and Pat leave us to fend for ourselves after their pep rally, and I get to run ten thousand extra laps for speaking out of turn. The next morning, after I run ten thousand more extra laps just for being pretty, Frank pulls us together into another stupid line. Single file. This, however, is a special line. First lieutenant Jessica Green, our commanding officer out in the field and another loaner from the real Army, is here to yell at us. Assert her authority in a venue in which we're used to getting ordered around, so we'll get used to her and have to listen out in the field. I kind of feel bad for her. Twenty four guys, all young, pent up and partially crazy. Some of us still have a mind of our own, even. At least to an extent. Problem is: she's a tiny little Jewish girl with a high voice and a Rochester accent. She looks more like an elementary school teacher than any sort of authority figure. Maybe it's the puffy, curly, pony tail. Or the glasses. She certainly walks like army brass, though.

"I am not your mother," big voice on her, if a little nasal. She paces up and down our line. I stand at some semblance of attention. She hasn't personally wronged me yet so I figure I should behave. "I am not your sister, and I am most certainly not you girlfriend. I am your commanding officer. I am the alpha and the omega as far as you are concerned. You will follow every order I issue immediately, fully and without question. If you do not, I will beat the shit out of you. If you snicker, I will beat the shit out of you. If you screw up, I will beat the shit out of you. If you piss me off, I will shoot you."

She stops pacing and faces our group. "Have I made myself clear?"

A resounding "Sir, yes, sir!" arises from the line. I'm not among them, but she doesn't seem to notice. What's the point of obstinately refusing to follow protocol if it doesn't get you any attention? She starts tromping around again. I wonder if one of the requirements for advancing in rank is an inability to stand still.

"Good. I expect we'll get along just fine. We will be the only dedicated infantry unit in a one hundred mile radius, so it is extremely important that you follow your orders exactly. These will not be exercises. You will be using live ammunition, so will the enemy. I do not believe that this is a suicide mission, but it will be difficult to succeed."

"What, exactly, is our mission?" I told myself I wouldn't antagonize her before she antagonized me. I must have lied. She snaps to attention in front of me.

"Stand up straight, soldier."

I do as ordered. "Better. I cannot, at this time, give you any concrete details about our mission. We will depart shortly, it will be a lengthy flight, and once we are on the ground I will disseminate information as the situation dictates. Now give me fifty pushup for speaking out of turn, maggot."

She sounds mostly like a commanding officer. I think I'm the most surprised that I didn't get punched in the face, but not by much. I whip off said pushups to show how nice a team player I can be. Jessica and I are the only ones who aren't surprised this time. Maybe I am, but just a little.

### Chapter 23

It was like something out of an over dramatic war movie, one that wins every award on the planet even though everyone kind of knows it's not all that good. Frank gave each of us a few words of encouragement, except me, a proud handshake and a pat on the shoulder while we stood on the airstrip. Everyone seemed to take a turn spewing out fake motivational crap to each other, largely ignoring me, since I was Mr. UnAmerican. Gil, of course, was the exception. He didn't want to kill people any more than I did. Not that he had the guts to do anything about it. Not that anything I've done so far has amounted to anything in the greater scheme of things. Maybe I can take credit for Ian being exempted from the murder patrol.

Now we're on this big cargo plane, giant piles of supplies in heavy-as-hell packs on our backs and nowhere comfortable to sit. It's just loud enough to make conversation suck really badly, but not loud enough to discourage people from attempting it. There are coats on the plane. Big piles of big camouflage coats. The lieutenant is sitting up in the front of the plane. She gets a seat. I guess she's important. Maybe it's because she's a girl. I lean over to Gil. "So, think they're sending us in against the Russians? Pilfer some Vodka, steal a fluffy fur hat and sneak over the border into the Ukraine?"

"We're heading south."

"Southern Russian, then.

"I don't think that's quite how geography works."

"It's a big country. Have you seen a map lately?"

"It's not Russia."

"That's fine. I can handle South America. Took a semester of Spanish in college, you know. Passed and everything. Yo se tu hiciste else verano pasado."

"You know what I did last summer?"

"Ah, a fellow student. It was on a movie poster in the text book. Individually, the words mean nothing to me."

"You should be a hit with the natives. I hear they love it when people repeat the titles of '90s movies to them over and over again in a terrible accent."

"I figured as much. I'll blend right in. Maybe I'll even become a professional soccer player."

"You need athletic ability for that."

"Just a technicality. It'd better not be Brazil, though. I don't know any movie titles in Portuguese."

"There's still time to learn. Maybe someone here can teach you."

"They tend not to like me so much. Something about being a communist. Speaking of which, think we're invading Venezuela? The internet told me we hate Chavez. He's got cheaper oil than we do. What a jerk face."

He points at the pile of winter clothing. "Venezuela isn't exactly a cold place. What with the equator being right there and all."

"I think you're thinking of Ecuador."

"How much pot, exactly, have you smoked?"

"Almost enough."

"Is there some sort of prize if you smoke enough?"

"I'll let you know after I get there. If I can remember. Have some snacks ready."

### Chapter 24

We're running out of South America, and the ground is starting to look all snowy. Maybe we're going to Anarctica to fight the evil penguin overlords so we can get their land to make popsicles. Penguins hate freedom. Except Mafia Penguins, they just hate kneecaps. Anyways. Half the guys on the plane are asleep. I can't sleep in transit. Maybe more than half. I tromp up to the front of the plane, as quietly as Robocop, but no one throws anything at me. Jess is awake in her chair, staring out at the cold black nothing. "Permission to speak freely?"

She snaps out of what looked like a pretty good daze, built from looking at nothing and thinking about something. "Yeah. Granted."

She sounds more casual now, a little tired. Not putting on the opening show any more, I guess. "We all got roped into this thing against our wills, with varying levels of resistance among us. What's your deal? You volunteer to lead the suicide squad into battle?"

"I didn't give you permission to ask questions."

"You want me to reword it as a statement that strongly implies a desire for supplemental information from a second party?"

"You're not as funny as you think you are."

"I get more laughs from civilians."

"I'll bet."

"Are you going to give me any information? Do I need to wait for need-to-know access to come through?"

"I didn't sign up and I wasn't forced into it. They practically begged me, though, after their first choice went into early retirement."

"Why you? Are you some super-decorated war hero who's supposed to mold us all in your image? Word has it that's what Frank was, and that didn't go so well."

"I'll pretend I didn't just hear you speak ill of a superior officer."

"That's probably for the best."

"They chose me because I have experience with this sort of thing. Afghanistan, 2002. There aren't a lot of us left, and I'm the highest ranking."

"And there's no chance you'll tell me what 'this sort of thing' is?"

"No. But from what I've heard, you probably already know."

"You mean I...."

"Don't say it. You'll see soon enough. Or maybe you won't. Depends on how long you last."

"I don't plan on getting killed any time soon."

"Who said anything about that?"

My stomach suddenly twists hard. I let the crickets chirp a few times, but they're drowned out by the engines and the 30,000 foot elevation. "How can you be so casual about it if you know what's going to happen to these people?"

"Don't assume you know anything. You might have stumbled on to a little more than the rest of them, but the list of things you don't know about this goes on for miles."

"I could start making some educated guesses."

"Don't." Her face hardens for an instant, then softens back up again. "I bet you'll hold out for a while. Permission to speak freely withdrawn. Go get some sleep."

I would have spoken without permission. Now I do. "This is real, isn't it? People are really going to die?"

She doesn't say a damn thing, just clears her throat. People are going to die. This wasn't supposed to be that real. I sit back down right by the front of the plane, suddenly too tired to climb over sleeping soldiers all the way back to my designated sitting spot. It's about the same amount of uncomfortable, and I do about the same amount of not sleeping.

### Chapter 25

We land early in the morning. It's still dark, and will be for hours this close to the South Pole. I haven't slept. Neither has Jess, from what I can tell. Not that I watched her during the night or anything. Most everyone else is rested. Jerks. We file out of the plane one by one, decked out in white and grey camo with huge coats and bigger backpacks. It's the kind of cold you can't help but take personally. When we're all off, Jess directs us clear of the big ugly cargo plane. It lumbers its way around in a circle, gets a long, rolling start on the expansive snowy field it just used as a landing strip, and takes off the way it came. I retain a fair portion of my hearing. We're alone. If this is an island it's huge, so it's probably not one. I don't think we could get much further south if we tried. No one asks for more detail. No one wants to make this more real than it already is.

We form ranks. We must stick out ridiculously from any elevated point around us – little grey dots in an ocean of white. We're sniper fodder. Jess stands in front of us. She doesn't sound nervous. "This is the real deal, boys. Time to see what you're made of." She points back, the way the plane went and off to the left. West, I think. I'm no mapographer. "We're going that way. It's far. Everyone you see that wasn't on that plane is a hostile unless I say otherwise. I won't say otherwise. It shouldn't be long until we get our fingernails dirty. I hope you're ready."

She turns and marches in the direction she pointed. She only gets a few steps before we start following. Trying to walk at the same pace as people marching without marching yourself is hard. There must be some sort of inborn instinct to mimic the crowd. I doubt they'll keep the marching up for long. Marching in the snow sucks, I can't be the only one who notices that.

### Chapter 26

The march doesn't last long, but the walking does. It takes well over an hour for us to even get a change in scenery. Now we've got mountains on either side of us, the perfect set up for an ambush, and we're on an even, rocky path that lets us go two at a time at best. More than two hours in, when we're all starting to deteriorate from fatigue, Jess stops us and points up, over a cliff at a bend in the path. There's someone up there. A single black line on a white backdrop. Doesn't appear to have spotted us yet. He's not jumping up and down or shooting or anything.

Wordlessly, Jess directs us off the path, up the slope a little behind some rocks for cover. He's still got the angle on us by a long shot. Jess hisses to us, as if he could hear a normal speaking voice at that distance. "Raise your weapons. Get the best lock on him you can. It's far. The more bullets the better."

They follow orders, leveling twenty-three guns at one man on a cliff who might not even be armed. I don't make any motion for mine. She's not paying any attention to me. When everyone is set, she raises her hand a little, then drops it. "Fire at will."

It's almost deafening. All around me, bursts from automatic rifles. Twenty-three, I assume. He falls almost instantly. What a waste of ammo, among other things. The cacophony echoes up into the mountains. I hear the crushing of snow and gravel over the ringing, then a shout in Spanish. Men come running down the path, around the bend. They're armed.

"Take them down!" Jess sounds like a machine barking out the orders. They fire, even Gil fires, into the small crowd. I sink low behind the rocks and snow around us, they have conventional weapons and we have automatics and the high ground. They drop like flies. I don't watch. "Werner!"

My eyes snap open and I look at Jess. She's just as pissed as she said she'd be. "Get your weapon out and fight like the rest of us!"

I shake my head vigorously. The return fire is petering out. We're slaughtering them. The gunshots taper off quickly, there's no one left to shoot at. Jess climbs on top of one of the big rocks, suddenly deciding the rest of the group is more important than the one guy who's unwilling to commit murder. "You just busted your cherries, girls! How does it feel?"

Someone "Woos," another shoots his gun up in the air. My blood curdles. "Everybody but Werner!" She hops off the rock and gets down in my face. My heart is pounding for what appears to be the opposite reason everyone else's is. "You shaking already, pussy? Maybe I was wrong about you. Maybe you'll be the first to crack. I don't give a damn." I just stare at her. I don't think I'm shaking. I think I'm more disgusted than scared. I think she's mistaking righteous indignation for shell shock.

She grabs my collar. I stare hard into her eyes. I can't be scared. Why would I be scared? This isn't a real war after all. "This is war, Werner!" She's so close to my face, spitting and sweating, she's barely distinguishable from Frank. The smell isn't quite as bad, though. "The next time I tell you to fire your weapon, you will fire your weapon or I will shoot you in the face myself, do you understand me?"

"Go to hell."

"What did you say?"

"I said go to hell. I'm no zombie berserker drone. I'm not shooting any one. You're going to have to kill me first."

"Big balls now that the shooting's over. We'll see what happens. Don't think I won't kill you. Out here, I am God. There is no law beyond my law. Remember that."

### Chapter 27

It's night. We've stopped. I'm sitting next to my "friend," trying to convince him that he's just become a murderer. "How can you kill those people? They're no threat. Their guns barely even qualify as guns."

Gil holds a finger up in front of his mouth. He's afraid of being caught talking to me. His whisper is just audible enough to be infuriating. "I'm keeping my head down and staying alive. Like you said you were going to do, remember?"

I just barely fight down the urge to smack him. "Keeping you head down does not usually involve killing people. As a matter of fact, that's pretty much the opposite of keeping your head down. It's much louder and more noticeable."

"Not around here it isn't. I don't want to kill anyone any worse than you do, but I don't have a choice. This is the army and we are at war, whether you want to believe it or not. It's kill or be killed."

"This is not the army, and this is not a God damn war. This is a meaningless practice coup that a fat bureaucrat made up to screw with our minds. There's no threat. You don't have to kill. All it takes is _not_ pulling a trigger. It's even easier than pulling it. I haven't killed anything, and I'm still alive."

"And if we all just sat there and covered like you did while those guys came charging after us with live ammunition we would all be dead."

"If you all did what I'm doing no one would have ever shot at us. We wouldn't even be here in the first place. I'm the one fighting a war here, Gil, not you clowns. And you know what? It's hard to win a war all by yourself. I thought you had morals, Gil."

"Whatever, man. You're just trying desperately to come up with a justification for your own cowardice. Don't blame that on me."

"You kill innocent people so a tiny girl won't yell at you, and I'm the coward?"

"They have _guns_. I kill them so they don't kill me, it's that simple. I don't smile while I do it."

"You're not convincing me, man. You're just a little boy looking for approval. Got to show you're not like the bad kid. You haven't even lost any sleep. You're a murderer, and you don't give a damn about those men you killed. You're one of them. I'm trying to save you, Gil. Don't become what they want you to be. You can make it out of here. Just put the gun down and keep your chin up."

"Sorry, buddy. You're the only one who sees it that way."

"Don't think I don't know it."

### Chapter 28

Shit shit shit shit shit. In the middle of the night these guys show up for revenge. Two guys, Popsicle and Sideeyes, got picked off in the dark while sitting watch. The pops woke us all up, now they're lying dead at the edge of the camp site and I'm half awake and scrambling for cover. I left my gun under my bag when the panic set in, now I'm crouching behind half a log that's nowhere near tall enough to cover me. It's dark as hell, I have no idea how many there are, but I almost pray that one will catch a glimpse of my tundra camo and pick me off.

All around me pseudosoldiers are scrambling to form some measure of a defensible position while Jess from hell barks orders over the sound of gunfire and they come through perfectly clear. My heart is pounding so hard it hurts my neck. Someone screams. He doesn't sound scared, he sounds angry. He rushes past me from behind, wide open; a light on the end of his rifle shows me his silhouette as he goes. The bullets pass right by him–or does he move out of the way? He's flinching, jerking all around; I can't tell if it's voluntary. Another goes rushing by from a few yards off to my right, moving unnaturally fast and unnaturally in general. He doesn't fall either. I hear a crack, look back at the first guy, he's holding a second gun, looks like a hunting rifle. He whirls around, using the gun as a club on something I can't see. Thunk. The other fires madly into the darkness. Cracks. Thunks. Bangs. The gunfire slows. I hear distant screams, screams in Spanish. One of the berserkers hurls his rifle into the darkness; it hits something and fires. Two wet thunks. The other runs behind a tree and emerges a second later, pulling another man by the hair. The man twists, struggles and screams, but can't get out of the grip of this psycho. I stand up.

"Let him go!"

I survived one berserker rampage, why not a second? I try to swallow, but my throat seems heavy and frozen. He shoves the man down to the ground, still holding his hair. I scramble over the log. He places a foot on the back of the guy's neck.

The imminent extra-brutal murder washes my fear away. I break into a run towards him. "Let him go, man!"

He stomps, jerking the head back. A rush of blood comes from the guy's mouth, then nothing. The berserker stands up straight as I arrive. By now, I'm close enough to recognize BJ, blood vessels carrying blackness under every inch of exposed skin, and I shove him hard. He smiles at me as he regains his footing. The gunfire has stopped. The other psycho is drawing in on me. I'm dead. I know I am. I don't break eye contact. "That's enough, man. Don't let it beat you. You're still in there."

He laughs, but doesn't move to kill me yet. Someone comes up behind me. I don't do anything about it. A hand lands on my shoulder. I turn just a little before being shoved back. It's Jess, and she's pushing by me, looking at the two crazies with the death blood. "That didn't take long at all, BJ. I don't know if I should be happy or disappointed."

The other soldier comes up next to her, looming over the little lieutenant. It's big, heavy Mackenzie. I can't see his skin too well, though day is breaking. I take a few slow, measured steps back, but they don't kill her. She's totally casual about things, in a militaristic way, anyways. "A helicopter should be by to air lift you out of here in a couple hours. It's been nice working with you, boys."

### Chapter 29

A black helicopter takes BJ and Mackenzie away in strait jackets. They don't calm down through the entire wait, their skin doesn't go back to normal, but they don't try to kill anyone else. It's something like restraint, I guess, or at least the ability to follow orders. As the sun comes up, I get a good look at the pile of bodies they made. Two and a half dozen people between the two of them. I don't think any went painlessly. Now it's morning. We haven't moved, despite the "enemy" clearly knowing where we are. The camp site has long since been cleaned up; the helicopter took our first casualties, too. Jess has been pacing back and forth for a while. Maybe she realized that she's been working with monsters to create monsters. I walk over to her. This whole thing just took a huge turn for the worse, and I feel obligated to try futilely to end it.

"Permission to ask if you're going to call this off now that people are dying?"

She stops pacing and looks at me like I killed her dog and her grandmother and made them into a suit that I'm asking her to wear. "Don't be cute, Werner. You did it again. You pussied out. You disobeyed a direct order."

"In case you haven't noticed, two of our people are dead, two more turned into mindless killing machines, and it's your fault. I think that's a little more important than me doing exactly what everyone but you expected me to do!"

She pulls her hand gun from her holster, points it at my face about six inches away, cocks it and puts her finger on the trigger in one fluid motion. It looks very smooth, like she really knows how to use that thing. I bet she'd even be a good shot at distances that required that sort of thing. It's a big, chrome semi-automatic from what I can see with it right under my nose. Not the kind of gun the army issues. At least not to someone as unimportant as me. "Do not speak to your commanding officer like one of your druggy friends! I will kill you where you stand. Are you ready to die for that yellow stripe running down your back?"

I open my mouth like I'm going to say something, my face as hard and serious as I think it's ever looked, lean forward and wrap my lips around the barrel of the gun, never breaking eye contact. It tastes remarkably like blood. We stand there, staring at each other, for seconds that could easily pass for hours. She pulls the gun out of my mouth slowly, like it hurts her to do it, then turns it in her hand and pistol whips me across the face. My head jerks to the side and she clocks me again, in the temple this time. I hit my knees an instant later and look up at her, blood starting to leak into my left eye, forcing me to squint. I smile. I was wondering when she'd start hitting me. It's time to make a fool of myself. "I'm winning."

She kicks me in the stomach and takes my air, then snaps another one into my jaw with the same foot. The back of my head hits the thin layer of snow and the rock underneath in slow motion. I stare up into the sun, vaguely connected to the waking world. From somewhere far away, a little voice tells me she just kicked me in the balls. My eyes roll back in my head where it's nice and dark.

### Chapter 30

My back is wet. I'm conscious, for what it's worth. My eyes pull themselves open, but have a rough time of it. It's still light out. Sun hasn't moved much. A backpack that's clearly heavier than it was the last time I carried it hits me in the stomach from about seven feet up. I roll over, which tells me it didn't break any ribs. Looks like today is going to be a good day. I shove the pack away from me and push up on all fours. Everything hurts. I catch a boot in the tailbone and sprawl back out on my stomach, because apparently every muscle I have has been replaced by rubber. I go to say something, but find my voice isn't working. I'm vaguely aware of a gathered crowd.

"Still think you're winning, shithead?"

I push up again. There's blood in the snow. Looks pretty dark. How long has that been there? I get kicked in the stomach and go face down in my blood pool. I push myself up quicker this time, trying to make it look like I'm not struggling for breath. I can't open my left eye beyond a squint and my face must be covered in blood. I figure out where Jess is standing and try to smile, but it comes out a cough. I have enough focus by now to see her look at me like our positions are reversed. Like I'm the one who's building a pile of bodies for no discernable reason. "This going as well as you though it would, Werner? I am not fucking around. I will kill you with my bare hands."

I cough again and push up to a kneel. "For saying no to you? Am I the only one who can see how insane that is?" I scan the crowd, which probably had plenty of time to gather while I was unconscious. Most of the guys are looking apathetic, a few are smiling. No one looks interested in anything I have to say. Gil is looking at his boots. "I'm a human being, same as you. I didn't volunteer for this; I didn't sign any contracts. I'm not your lemming." I look at a random member of the crowd. My right eye can't see far enough to tell where it is. "You don't have to be a drone either. None of you do. What's the worst that could happen? You get hit a couple times?" I force myself to my feet, stifling a wince, and turn to Jess. "I'm still standing, aren't I? Big deal."

Jess throws a haymaker swing at my face and I find myself ducking under it faster than I have time to ponder. I turn around and her forearm hits my neck, then she kicks my leg out and drives me down, drilling her thankfully small weight into my trachea. I cough and can't get any air in to fill the void it creates. She doesn't let off in the slightest. I hold my breath. "I will choke the life out of you, let go when you pass out and start again when you wake up. Don't you dare fuck with my command again. These men are good soldiers, good _men_. You're just a spoiled suburban coward who thinks he can take a punch. You will suffer and die if you don't shape the hell up, do you understand me?"

She leans back just enough for me to get some agonizingly shallow breaths in. No one is moving to help me in the slightest. They've grown desensitized to seeing me get beat on. I suddenly regret not making more friends. I don't have any credibility with these people, and suddenly I need it. Suddenly there's something worth fighting for that's bigger than my stubborn, stupid ego. My head is throbbing. I'm looking around since my eyes don't work well enough for eye contact, and suddenly I've got the worst idea of my life. "I wouldn't dream of it. You've got such a good thing going, what with the deaths, insanity, and wholesale slaughter going on. It's got the potential to be a work of art."

She climbs off of me, spitting in my good eye on the way up. My heart is pounding. I take two good breaths before I start trying to get up. It's a simple motion, basically just reaching my left hand out, opening it and closing it again, but it feels huge. Like a marathon all rolled into a fraction of a second. The cold metal is in my hand before I'm standing, the whole world is in slow motion and everything is shaking. Acid climbs up my throat. My lungs are going numb, my face is going numb, my hands are going numb. I swallow hard, clear my throat, and point the gun at my commanding officer.

She'd been walking away just a second before. It was over. I'd gotten mine and all would be well until I started acting up the next time. Only I now have this sudden clarity, that there actually is something I can do that will actually make a difference, and the gun is already in my hands. She's staring at it. I'm staring at her, more thinking about stopping my hands from shaking than actually pulling the trigger. There's no fear on her face, none I can see. Suddenly, instead, there's a smile. A mean, taunting smile. A smile that makes me want to shoot her twice as bad as I had a second before.

"Yeah right, Werner. Put the gun down before you hurt yourself."

Now my hands are shaking and my lungs are shaking and the gun is shaking and the world is shaking. My finger is on the trigger. The whole motion would be almost microscopic. Just squeeze the trigger and walk away. She dies; they kill me, the mission ends. Nobody else has to die; nobody else turns into a raving lunatic and goes on a killing spree. All I have to do is squeeze. I try to say something, but my voice is gone. She watches my mouth move futilely and the smile gets meaner. Maybe it doesn't. Maybe I'm going crazy. Maybe I'm snapping and becoming one of them and I'll kill everyone right now. That would show them.

"Seriously. Shit or get off the pot. We don't have all day."

If I'm turning into a berserker then I'm the most pathetic berserker in human history. Instead of killing everyone I see with my bare hands I can't even move my index finger two millimeters and do the most important thing I've ever done in my life. God damn morals. Stupid murder. I look down at the gun. Why is it so easy for everyone else to shoot? My hands can barely hold onto it any more, my finger is relaxing off the trigger, I'm losing my grip. Just squeeze. That's all it takes. The gun falls out of my hands, and suddenly I'm doubled over, puking all over my feet and my gun and the snow.

It seems to take me an hour to straighten myself back up. When I do, there Jess is, right in front of me, right next to my pile of sick. She punches me in the mouth, and a tooth rolls to the back of my throat. I'll spit it out when she's not looking; I've embarrassed myself enough for a few millennia. She waves Benny and Mr. Cosby over towards me. "You should have a set of handcuffs among your supplies, and a roll of duct tape. Lock his hands behind his back and tape his mouth shut. I've had enough of his whining."

### Chapter 31

I never spit my tooth out. Stupid, proud moron with a loose tooth rolling around in my taped shut mouth. Now they've got one guy, Benny, assigned to walk behind me and shove me along. I'm a prisoner or war. And there's no war going on, my own side took me prisoner for _not_ shooting anyone. Plus it turns out my tongue isn't even close to strong enough to remove duct tape from my mouth. Even when blood has been wearing down the adhesive. Benny doesn't seem to hear a word I mumble.

We've been walking for hours in the cold, and I'm still wet. Every part of my body hurts, even the numb parts. I didn't get any breakfast and my dinner is on the ground a ways back. I've got a molar rolling around in my mouth and I can't do anything about it but wonder if swallowing it will make me bleed internally. This is truly hell on earth. I'm hungry. I should be depressed as hell, defeated and hanging my head. But the embarrassment and the out and out failure seem to have energized me, and now mostly it just sucks not to be able to start trouble. I was really starting to hit my stride. It's killing me to know that she thinks that she's got me shut down. I'm unstoppable. I think I'm unstoppable. I'll figure something out.

Everybody is starting to look miserable. They're catching up. We're wet, cold and tired, the packs are heavy, the walk is long, the food sucks and it's boring. Maybe someone will get bored enough without my antics to start causing trouble. I roll my tooth around in my mouth, clacking it against the ones that are stuck in place. It disgusts me less now. I guess I've gotten used to it. It's getting dark again. No food all day when days are really short isn't really that big a deal, but I'm not exactly used to going hungry.

Jess stops us in a pretty well-protected outcropping. "We camp here tonight. Santana, Van Dusen, scout the area. Two miles with this as the center. I don't want hostiles sneaking up on us tonight, I need some sleep."

The two soldiers head off up the path like good little trained monkeys. I flop down on the ground a bit harder than I intended to and set my already hurting tailbone a-throbbing. I say a silent prayer for my continued ability to sit. Jess stomps over, kicking a little gravel on me on purpose. "Don't both setting a tent up for Werner. A little exposure will do him a world of good." She leans down, right next to my ear and whispers into it, "You and me are going to have a little talk tonight."

### Chapter 32

Our scouts come back about a thousand hours later. Well, sitting on the ground in the cold and wet with the pain and all might be slightly distorting my sense of time, but probably not by much. They go right over to Jess and say something to her too quietly for me to do more than determine there is speaking. They stop, she dismisses them, then they quietly go around gathering up everyone but me.

They all form up eventually, twenty yards from me or so, and have the quietest briefing in the history of the military. Two minutes later, they're gone, except for Benny. He gets to stay and guard me, instructed to beat me senseless if I try to do anything, which may or may not included breathing, I assume. He's kind of a pudgy guy, a year or two older than me. His hair was curly before they cut it down to nothing. Now it just looks like everyone else's. He stomps on over towards me. He looks less happy than your average prison guard.

"It's all your fault, Werner. I'm missing the coolest night mission ever. They're probably going to all win medals for it. I get left out, stuck with you. Why do you gotta be such a traitor? You secretly a terrorist? Trying to destroy us all from the inside or something?"

I look at him, and try to look annoyed. The duct tape doesn't want me to say anything, and I can't convince it to let me. "You probably want us to get killed. You're just trying to keep us distracted so the Mexicans can sneak up on us in the night again." I didn't know they had renamed the whole continent Mexico. It doesn't really surprise me. "The Lieutenant is too smart for you. She's a genius. And she kicked your ass. You should have seen it. It was intense. You got knocked out by like a tiny little girl. I guess she's right about you being a pussy. A pussy terrorist. That's why you don't mess with the U.S.A."

I kill him with the powers of my mind, but it doesn't translate to the real world. I think I can actually feel my brain cells crumbling. I try everything I can think of to free my mouth, which isn't a whole lot with no hands, but it goes about as well as expected. I know if I could just talk to this clown, I could turn his weak mind to my side and at least have one ally. Until someone else talked to him. It's no use. The tape is wrapped around my head at least four times. I need my hands, and even then it'll take a while. "You probably tipped those guys off last night. Too bad for you that BJ and Mackenzie went all apeshit Batman on them."

Batman doesn't kill people! "They totally messed your plan up. Man I wish I could do that crazy stuff." He's holding his hands out in a mock karate pose and ducking back and forth as he talks, trying to mimic the erratic, super fast movements we both saw last night and failing miserably. "They were like ninjas, dodging bullets, walking right up to like twenty guys and taking them all out without getting scratched. That would be the coolest thing ever. I'd be like a superhero if I could do that."

A mindless, bloodthirsty superhero that does the bidding of the forces of evil. Man, if I could talk I'd be rolling in the zingers. Benny looks a little less pissed and more stupid now. "You think they were the super soldiers the main guy was telling us about? You think that could be us?" I give him some exaggerated fear eyes and nod. Maybe he'll get the subtle point. "Man, I hope so." I guess not. "You and your terrorist traitor buddies wouldn't stand a chance." The moron stumbled onto the most frightening prospect possible. They're going to make an army of those things. They're going to sweep across everything in their way, both real and imagined, and they're going to kill it all. They're the most dangerous people in the world, and everyone thinks they're the good guys.

And I'm going to be one of them.

### Chapter 33

There's still plenty of dark left when they get back. Twelve of them, plus Jess. Must not have gone so well. My stomach turns and I pray I don't throw up into the impregnable duct tape wall. Jess has me hauled into her tent and left there by myself for a while. Everyone is pretty boisterous, but no one says a word about what happened that I can hear. They don't sound particularly sad. I think I fall asleep for a while. The next thing I know, Jess is in the tent with me and everything is quiet outside. She's smiling. "You're losing pretty badly, you know.

"Six of them turned during our little raid. Three more came damn close. Your best friend Gil was so damn close he might flip if a cold wind hits him just right. They're dropping like flies." She grabs the end of the tape and starts pulling it off my face, slowly so I can really feel it. "Soon, there'll be no one left. Not even you."

She finishes the maddeningly slow tape removal. I wonder how much skin is left on my face. Between that, the dried blood, windburn and fatigue, I must look like Quasimodo. Totally ruins my chances with the ladies. I spit my tooth out. It hits her face with a wet slapping sound. I forgot I wasn't going to let her see it. "Why does that make you happy? Those people had lives before. Families. The people they're killing are the same. The hundreds they're going to kill on the front lines will have families too. Until they kill the families too."

She wipes the spot of blood and spit off her face, peers down at my molar, then back into my eyes. "You think I like this? What these guys become under my command? Every single one of you is as good as a casualty before you even step into the field. You really think I relish being the commander of a unit with a 100% casualty rate?"

Melodrama. We're all the victim here, victims of circumstance. No, wait, everyone _but_ her. "I think you love it. I think you're a sadist. You're in heaven out here. Once you finish with us, you'll go back and pick up the next group of unwitting pawns. But you won't have as much fun, 'cause I won't be there."

Her smile has something I can't place in it. Something a little strange. "You think a little too much of your powers of observation, Mr. Werner, and far too little of your fellow man. You're not the only one with a mind of his own. We all do what we can for ourselves when we can get away with it."

"The only difference is that I'm the only one not doing anything evil. I'm trying to help hundreds, thousands of people. Maybe more. I'm going to win. I think you know that already. There's no other way for this to end."

"You're deluded, Nate. Pure and simple. You don't even know what you're trying to win at. You've already lost this game. All that's left to do is decide how you go down. You're either going to turn into one of them, or I'm going to shoot you."

"I think I know which way you'd prefer."

"Don't let yourself think there's another option, Werner. There isn't. You're stuck."

"One question for you."

"What?"

"Did you just leave six psychos out in the middle of nowhere to kill their way home?"

"Of course not. I tranqed them first. The helicopter should be over to pick them up before morning."

"One more question."

"Yes?"

"Planning on taking the cuffs off?"

"Only if I need you to shoot something."

"I hate you. Last question, I promise."

"It'd better be. I could just shoot you now."

"Can I bunk here tonight? It's the least you could do. Plus I might have a concussion. I could totally die during the night."

"Fine. But if I catch you looking at me, I'll shoot your dick off."

"I don't doubt it."

### Chapter 34

I made it through that night without getting shot or slipping into a coma. Then I made it through the next, and four more after that. Handcuffs still on, because it wasn't time for me to kill anything, but at least they let me eat a little. Nine more guys turned in those six days. Some it took some doing, some were set off by the tiniest little things. Snap, off they go in the big black helicopter and the immaculate white straightjackets. Benny, Gil, Santana and this guy we call the Gay Republican remain, plus myself and Lieutenant Jessica Green are all that's left. Every night she tries to convince herself she's a good person by yelling at me, and every night I do my best to convince her she's evil. I think she'll end up with a split personality sooner or later.

I've been a good boy for the most part. I antagonize Jess every night, but not to the point of violence, just enough to keep her dishonest. During the day I keep my mouth shut. No one here has any intention of listening to me; we've gone well past that and it's not fun to be a dick any more. I spend my days walking along quietly and trying to come up with a new plan. Not going to beat anyone by harassing an ever-shrinking number of dumb schmucks with no decision-making power. I have to keep reminding myself not to feel beaten. There's still a way to fix things, it's just buried.

I can tell Gil is turning. His eyes don't look right, he twitches a little when he thinks no one is looking, and he won't look anywhere near my face. That could be shame, or he could know I know. He didn't fight back hard enough when he had the chance, now it's a losing battle. It hurts to watch. I can't help but wonder how long until I'm like that...or if I'll skip that stage altogether and snap outright like most of the others. I don't think I feel anything building up in me. I think I feel normal.

I don't know if that's a good sign. I wish I had asked Ian some questions about it when I had the chance. I wish Ian had been coherent enough to give me any useful information beyond order to "kill them all." I wish a lot of things. I just wish I could hit a giant bong, funnel a couple beers and play fighting games until I pass out. The thought that that's my ideal, though, the best thing I can come up with, is a little depressing. I could do something better. I could go to the park and watch the ducks, or go to school, or go to school and learn about ducks. Not that I'll ever get the chance. What use does a being of pure bloodlust have for the finer things in life?

### Chapter 35

We stop walking at the top of a hill. The way down in front of us is steep, long, and treacherous, but nowhere near impassable. At the bottom of the hill, a small village. No cars, dirt roads, not more than twenty buildings. We've probably already killed half the population. Cows, goats and sheep are wandering around in pens on the outskirts. This is the most civilization we've seen since we left the base. It seems like that was years ago. Jess stands on the precipice of the hill, her back to the village. "That right there is the objective, boys. Simple, huh? Just clean out the village, and we can all go home. I know you're tired, cold and hungry. I know there're only six of us, five that count, and that's a whole village. None of that matters now. You have it in you to become as Gods. That village is your ticket to heaven."

There comes a time when you just can't be a good boy any more. You fight and you fight, but the world, or the people around you, beg too hard to be antagonized. "You can't be serious! Those are farmers down there. At least the other guys planned on fighting back before you slaughtered them, these people are just trying to survive! They've got nothing to do with us, or your fucking training exercise, you sadistic bitch!"

She doesn't get mad this time. I don't count enough anymore. She doesn't even look phased. "I was wondering when we would hear from you. The fact is, Mr. Werner, that this village has been labeled by Homeland Security as an imminent threat. As many as 80% of its citizens are known to be involved in a plot to bring nuclear materials across the Pacific from former Soviet states. These people want to blow us off the face of the earth."

"Russian nukes in a tiny landlocked village in Chile? The ridiculous cop-out of a story is seriously what you're going with?"

"Are you a highly trained intelligence operative?" She allows a totally unnecessary pause. "Then shut up. You don't know anything. We're going down there, and we're killing the terrorists. You are killing terrorists. End of discussion. The chopper will be here in a few hours to pick us all up, and all of those people will be dead."

I hold out my cuffed hands behind me and turn to the side so she can see them. "You taking these off?" Maybe I'll magically grow the ability to kill people and stop everything, but I need my god damn hands.

"When I'm good and ready. We won't need you at the beginning. Just stay out of the way for a while." She turns back to the rest of them. "It's time to finish this up, boys."

### Chapter 36

I follow them down the hill to hell; I keep catching myself starting to cry and forcing it back. God damn it. I really am going to lose. I mean, forget me, these people are really going to get killed, and there's nothing I can do about it but complain and wait for my ride home. There's nothing I can do.

Santana snaps before we even get to the bottom of the hill. He takes off in front of everyone and disappears into the nearest house, after kicking in the homemade door. A scream rises up from inside, then gunshots. People start coming out of their houses, only to be gunned down by Benny, laughing like a madman as his veins darken. Jess whispers something into Gil's ear and he shakes his head. She whispers something else, then slaps him. Whatever it is, I can almost see him change right there, and he takes off into the village.

Santana's done with the first house soon, and he plows into a second. The Gay Republican runs into the streets between the houses and a heavy guy swings a shovel at his head. He ducks down, reaches up and catches the shovel by the handle in a flash, tucks it under his arm, twists the man to the ground and buries the shovel head in his rib cage, all in a fraction of a second.

I look away and see Benny shoot a farmer in the cow pen, leap up, kick off the back of a cow and land on one boot on the farmer's face. I turn again, and Santana has a pitchfork buried in the throat of a middle aged woman. I'm shaking. I can't fight the tears off any more. I glance at Jess and she has no expression on her face, like she's watching something that's a little interesting on TV. Like this is exactly what she expected. I turn back and Gil is smashing the face of an old man into the corner of a house while holding a little girl by the throat with his other hand. I double over and throw up, then fall on my side. I can't stop, but there's nothing left in my stomach. I wretch and cry and struggle in the cuffs. All I can hear are the screams.

### Chapter 37

I stare into the snow, struggling in the handcuffs as if I had suddenly gained the strength to free myself. I haven't. My already chafed skin splits open and bleeds. I don't know how I'll fix things if I'm free, but I can't just watch, I can't do nothing. I don't watch. It's freezing cold but my skin feels like it's burning, like I'm boiling underneath. I'm fighting it while I writhe. It's not going to happen. Not now. The screams slowly die down, the gunshots more infrequent. Someone comes tromping towards me. I can't look up. I hope one of the berserkers decided to turn on me and finish this. I'm the only one left. I haven't turned yet.

Jess leans down behind me and grabs one of my hands. She unlocks the cuff on my left wrist. As I bring my arms around to my front, my shoulders feel like antiques. I push myself up onto my knees and can't muster any more, still looking at the ground. "That's what you wanted, right? You got them all. Now shoot me or get me out of here."

I look up; Gil is trudging towards me, still clutching the little girl by the throat. She's not moving more than shallow breathing, but at least she's not dead. Passed out or fainted. I'm sure I look horrified. She's a god damn six year old, covered in other people's blood and dirt. Jess comes up next to me and holds an assault rifle in front of my face. "Stand up, take it, and shoot. I don't even give a damn which one you kill, but you are busting your cherry _right now_."

I stand, hanging my head. The rifle looms in front of me, the limp kid just beyond that. I take the gun and eye it. It's heavy and cold. The cold seems to spread from the gun into my hands and through my skin. It feels good. Jess crosses her arms and stands over by Gil. I guess she's pretty sure I won't shoot her. Smart girl. I'm not shooting anyone. Being beaten is not the same thing as giving up. I look her dead in the eyes, release the clip and let it drop out of the gun, to the ground. The snow crunches on the impact. I throw the gun off to the side. "If that's what it'll take for you to win, you'll lose every time. Bitch."

She stares right back at me and slides her hand gun out of its holster. She levels it at my stomach. "Kill the kid," she snaps at Gil, who snaps the tiny neck on command. Maybe I should have shot someone. I've got the wrong lives on my conscience. God damn you, Gil. If you even still exist. "I'll kill the coward."

I swallow the bile that wells up in my throat. I'm not sure if I'm scared. "We've been through this before. You can't shoot me any more than I can shoot you."

She fires. My stomach bursts into flames of lead and blood. I fall back to the ground, the echo of the shot ringing in my mind over and over. Everything feels cold but the fire in my stomach.

### Chapter 38

My heart is still beating. I can't feel it, but it's louder than the helicopter. I stare straight up into the sky; the sun is bright, white and cold. No sign of a sun, no discernible clouds, just an endless expanse of while and the black of the helicopter passing over me sticking out like a monstrosity. A bloated metal demon flying from hell to hell. Its contents are even more macabre, but it's already too high up for me to see inside. I'm bleeding to death; that much I know. I think I can move, but I can't bring myself to. This is how I die. I lost a game of chicken; now I'm going to die.

I lost.

It rings in my mind over and over. I look over at my right hand; it's still sitting in the handcuff that's been on it for a week. There's no skin left on my wrist. When did I lose? When did I stop fighting back? Did I? I'm not fighting now.

I sit up.

The blood rushes out of my head and everything goes black for an instant. My pack is too heavy. I take my arms out of it carefully. Bleeding too much. I pull my pack over in front of me and open it up. It's one of the hardest things I've ever done. I grit my teeth. No. This is not how I go down, I'm too stubborn for this. I'm still alive. I pull out the roll of duct tape they left me with and a spare t-shirt. Fold the t-shirt up, hold it over the wound and wrap the duct tape around me, tight, fifteen or so times. Each time hurts a little less than the last.

I hope the bleeding slows. I can only feel the pain; the rest of my body is numb by comparison. I get rid of everything from the pack that isn't absolutely necessary, hanging on to just socks, water, a little bit of food and duct tape. The lighter the better. I drink about half a bottle of water. Gotta make new blood. I hope that's how it works. Try not to think of the pain. Don't get too mad. Can't become one of them. Can't change. Can't let them have that. Righteous indignation, that's the way to go. You can't beat me if I don't give up.

I stand. What a man.

Try not to think about how hard that was. It was easy. One foot in front of the other. I know I've done this before. Toddlers can walk. I can walk too. Maybe even better than they can. Step, step, step. Running on adrenaline, step. Can do extraordinary things, step. I can't wait to see their faces. I'll get to see their faces if I just step, step, step. Follow the dirt road, step, step, step. No cars here, step, step. Couldn't steal from the dead, anyways, step, step. Pause to breathe. Gotta remember to breathe. That had to be one hundred fifty, two hundred feet. How much further could it be? Step, step, step. Too bad I don't know how to ride a cow. Step.

I try my damndest to remember enough Spanish to keep myself alive; alternate that with praying the people in the next village have a hospital and haven't heard what's been going on down here. It passes the time pretty well as I plod slowly up the dirt road.

### Chapter 39

I keep losing track of the number of steps I'm taking. It's getting hard to concentrate. Feels like time is speeding up, then slowing down again, over and over. I can barely think. The t-shirt tied to my stomach is a dark red now, practically dripping. Can't look at it, would pass out. Road goes on for miles in both directions, can't walk fast enough to go miles. Can't stop to sleep, wouldn't wake up. Can't move enough, can't die. Can't die. _Can't die_.

Some part of me hits something. My foot gets caught; I fall forward and down. The ground hurts too much; it's harder than I am. I push up with my arms; don't look at what tripped me. Doesn't matter what it is, I can't look back. Get a leg under me, push up and I'm standing again. Didn't lose too much time. Not giving up just for that. I'm doing well. Someone yells. I walk again. Someone yells again. Person. A person yells. I stop. I see a person, a man up ahead. I walk. "Hospital." It's hard to talk. I can barely remember how. I can't remember Spanish. "Ospital!" My accent sucks.

His eyes are big and wide when I can see them. Must look almost as bad as I feel. I wave. He stops. He says something in Spanish. It's too fast, but I feel like it must be close to "Como se llama?" I respond as appropriate. "Me llamo Nathan Werner. Yo estoy...muerto? Going to be muerto. I'm muerting. Yo neccessito hospital, por favor."

He eyes me suspiciously. Handcuffs, fatigues, blood, bruises and duct tape making me look a little suspicious. He says something in Spanish, but I can't hope to keep up. Should have paid more attention in class. I respond. "Tu hablas English? Me espanol es muy mal."

I'm doing better than I thought I would. Those were all approximately real words, many of them Spanish. He shakes his head vigorously, still eyeing me like I'm a member of a covert unit of the U.S. pseudomilitary sent to kill him, and all of his relatives and neighbors. I black out for a second. When I rejoin the world, I'm on my knees. I can't get back up. It's not working. I look up at him. He's just a shadow now, totally backlit. "Por favor, hospital. Por favor senor! Doctor! Medicina! Something!"

He takes a nervous step back, like I'm the slightest threat in this condition. Like I'd be a threat even if I was healthy. "Hospital, man! For me! I'm dying, you're killing me! Muerto! For Christ's sake!" Everything is spinning, now I'm down on all fours, looking at the guy's feet. "Come on, man. Yo se tu hiciste el verano pasado...."

My face hits his foot, then the cold ground next to it. Why does it have to be so cold? Blackness seeps in and replaces the world, but it keeps on spinning just the same.

### Chapter 40

I'm in a bed. It's hard, but it's a real bed. Not the ground. I'm on my back, not my face. I was on my face. I don't hurt. I open my eyes. Hospital. A real hospital. The smell is even right. There's an IV in my arm, I assume it's responsible for the distinct lack of pain going on. I survived. I'm handcuffed to the bed. Looks like it's the same set of handcuffs I've been wearing for what seems like my whole life. My wrists are bandaged at least. Good. I was starting to worry they'd be worn down to the bone.

I guess I live in Chile now. If I go home, I might be sent to jail. Did they tell everyone I deserted? Turned on them? Bastards. Probably rang me up for treason, even after they killed me. Maybe I'll move to England and start a new life there. Where they speak English. I'm certainly not staying in South America. We got off on the wrong foot, and I don't think we're ever going back. "Water. Agua."

I need fluids to replace the blood. My stomach is covered in bandages piled thicker than the t-shirt I used for want of them. Seems like they got through the duct tape all right. Hope that wasn't too much work for them. Hope they stitched me up. Hope they found the bullet. Some probing with my tongue tells me they didn't notice the tooth, or at least didn't think it was important enough to fix. That was a long shot anyways. I get louder. "Hola? Agua frio! Se habla English por favor?"

I'm running out of Spanish phrases that don't involve the locations of pencil sharpeners and counting. A nurse comes in from the hallway. She speaks Spanish at me and it goes right over my head. Which I shake. It hurts. My neck is stiff enough to convince me that my whole spine has fused into one contiguous bone. I sink back, into the hard bed. The nurse leaves. I kill myself with my mind, but it doesn't register with my body. It's not going to be easy to get anything done if no one speaks English around here.

### Chapter 41

A guy in a suit walks into my room in the early afternoon of the second day I've been conscious in the hospital. He doesn't look like a doctor; I don't think he'd even look like one in scrubs. "Mr. Werner, I am Diego Contreras. It is a pleasure to meet you."

His accent is thick, but his English is understandable, so it's miles better than anything I've dealt with thus far. But he knows my name, so he might be one of, like, their people, here to shoot me again, take me out when I'm not strong enough to defend myself. Since I did a whole lot of defending myself last time. I think fast. "Werner? Sorry, I think you've got the wrong guy. The name is Petranko. Harvey Petranko."

He looks displeased and reaches into his pocket. "Then I take it these are not your dog tags, sir?" He pulls a set of dog tags out of his pocket and holds them up. Even though they're too far away to read, I think my eyes convey a message along the lines of "Oh God."

He smiles, "You are not in any danger, Nathan. The people of this hospital merely have some questions. It is not every day an American shows up this far south, with a bullet in his abdomen no less. And now you try to conceal your identity. You are becoming a curiosity."

"Wonderful. I suppose now you're going to ask how I ended up wandering around in the middle of nowhere with a bullet in my stomach and handcuffs half on, eh?"

"It would be in your best interest to be forthcoming."

"Has anyone gone back the way I came yet?"

He sounds a little confused. "No one I have spoken to. There is not very much down that road."

"Even less now. A rogue military group cut a swath of destruction that follows a single dirt road, which starts in a big empty field, cuts up through some hills and mountains, and ends in a small village whose current population is zero. I'd imagine some sort of black ops team would have been through to remove all of the bodies and other bits of evidence by now, but they'd be hard pressed to wipe every trace of that village off the map. Someone would hear the explosions. I was their prisoner. They kidnapped me back in the United States and tried to brainwash me into joining in. Some pseudo-religious madness had the lot of them acting like zombies. When I resisted, they beat me, cuffed me, and finally shot me and left me for dead. I made it, as you can see, and I am pretty pissed off. Do you have any idea when I can get out of here?"

"Who did these people work for?"

"They claimed to be official U.S. military, but not with any branch I've ever heard of. I find that more than a little hard to believe." Why the hell am I protecting them? I guess they would probably just sweep in here and kill everyone who knew. Not that anyone would believe that a legitimate branch of a legitimate armed forces would really randomly be out slaughtering country folk for sport.

"Forgive me if I do not take you at your word, your story is somewhat – what is the word? Far-fetched. Do you have any proof of what you say?"

"Fist marks on my face, the bullet that was in my stomach, a stump where a tooth used to be, those rather real-looking dog tags in your hand and—oh, yeah. There's that village full of missing persons that's a ways southish of here. I'd imagine there's got to be some manner of left over gore out there."

He looks uncomfortable. "You understand if I cannot take you at your word in this."

"So go down there yourself, and let me know how it turns out. They're long gone by now." I rattle my hand in the hand cuffs, which find a way to hurt even through the morphine and bandages. "You never answered my question. When can I go? I have some important business to attend to back in the States."

"The doctors tell me your recovery will take some time. Several layers of muscle tissue were damaged. You will need extensive rehabilitation. This will give us plenty of time to validate your story, in case there's anything you would like to change before I leave this room."

"You got the true story, buddy. There's nothing more I can tell you. Though, actually, there was one more thing. The, I don't know, brigands, that were dragging me along met with armed resistance on the way. Guys with guns who seemed to know they were coming. Not a whole lot of guys, though, and not particularly good guns."

He pretends to care, but he obviously thinks he's got me caught in a lie. He thinks for a second. "Noted. One last thing, now. You told the man who found you that you knew what he did last summer. What, exactly, are you accusing him of, and why would you know?"

### Chapter 42

It turns out that Jennifer Love Hewitt isn't particularly well known in rural Chile. Diego was pretty enthralled by my synopsis of the plot, though. I haven't seen him for about three days, but in that time I haven't seen a noticeable downturn in the level of service I've been receiving. I suppose no news is good news. They've even moved my handcuff to my IV, so now I can walk laps up and down the hallway, which is harder than it sounds. The operation of doors seems to be well beyond my current physical prowess. Oh well. It's a nice stretch of hallway. There are pictures on the walls, even a potted plant in the corner. It's real. I touched it somewhere around my fiftieth lap.

They've got me eating liquids when I can force anything down at all. My internal piping isn't exactly fully functional right now, probably thanks to the acute abdominal trauma. Sitting up sucks quite a bit, so I try to do it as much as I possibly can. No pain, no gain. Today, I'm even doing pseudo crunches. Gotta get the hell out of this hospital. I feel like they're laughing every hour they still think I'm dead. Their jaws are going to drop when I show up. I can't wait.

I've decided to go home, and to make a big fanfare about it. They wouldn't stick treason on a corpse, there's no margin in that. I was killed by terrorists. Body couldn't be recovered. I'll sue the hell out of them for their own cover story, and they'll have to pay through the nose or I'll talk about some of the more unseemly things I've seen. Too many people will know I'm around for them to just disappear me. You'll see what happens when you mess with me, Beatrice and Pat. You'll get yours from my lawyer. The thought of public disgrace for the two of them is more than enough to keep me going.

### Chapter 43

Diego shows up bright and early in the morning, before I even wake up. He's wearing a different suit. I close my eyes and pretend to fall back asleep. He doesn't buy it. Clever bastard. "I have been unable to verify your story, Mr. Werner." Seriously? The SSPO had to not be a sloppy pack of idiots the one time I needed them to be? "The stretch of road you referred to has been shut down for hazardous materials cleanup. The village has been fully evacuated, though there are no records available as to where. This was all I was able to determine."

How slick of them. They've got hands everywhere. Probably know someone was asking about it now, too, and ruined my surprise. "That seem a little suspicious to you? That they shut down forty miles of road and disappeared everyone who lives there? Sounds like corroboration to me, just buried a little under a terrible cover story."

He steps forward. I forgot to pretend to be asleep. "Unless you knew about the closing and used it to create an elaborate cover story that could not be disproven without offending powerful members of the government or going to great personal expense."

"And what, exactly, have I done so far that's convinced you that I happen to be the most clever person on the planet?"

"Perhaps you are right." He moves over to my side. "I will not risk my neck investigating this further. There are no official records of your presence in this hospital, Mr. Werner. This room is currently list as under renovation. I do not know if anything you have said is true, but it is clear that you were involved in something that my government does not want made public. I would be a fool to draw attention to you in my hospital." He withdraws a key from his pocket and unlocks the handcuffs. "When your recovery is complete, you will head to a train station. There will be tickets enough waiting for you there, under the name Harvey Petranko, to get you to Mexico City."

He pulls my dog tags out and puts them on the night stand next to me. "There should probably be enough to get you across the border. You never heard of me or my hospital, Mr. Werner. Our paths did not cross in your travels. You will find a wallet with several hundred dollars, American, in it, in the pocket of the pants you arrived in. Consider this payment for your discretion, in addition to the free medical care you have received."

I push myself up, into a sitting position, and it takes about four times as long as it should. "Why are you doing all of this stuff for me?"

"I was not able to find any official confirmation of your story, Mr. Werner, but there were plenty of people who had plenty to say, some of whom claim to be eyewitnesses. Not all good deeds go unnoticed, Nathan. I wish there was more I could do to help."

He turns and walks out quickly, before I can say anything to him. Now I've got to come up with a story that doesn't involve his hospital.

### Chapter 44

Rehab is hell. I can do hundreds of sit ups, but if I twist to the left, it's like there are no muscles there at all. I can only try to do it for so long before I'm magically exhausted, then I lay down for ten minutes, then try some more. I'm rehabbing in the rehab room, on my way back from the rehab room, in my bed and in the bathroom. Every damn chance I get. I haven't seen Diego again, and no one else here has passable English skills. I'm bored.

I've decided this morning that I don't need to twist very well to ride a train, and it's time to get the hell out of this hospital. Five weeks is a long time to sit on the sidelines while the villains think they've won. One person knowing I got screwed over isn't enough anymore. It's time to show the world. I climb out of bed and throw on the army-issue grey and white pants I came in with. They cleaned almost all of the blood off. I tap the back right pocket, and there's a thick wallet there, sure enough. Seven hundred dollars in twenties and fifties. I counted it all two weeks ago. That's plenty the get me over the border, and I won't need anything after that.

Diego left me a clean white t-shirt, which I change into, and my pack containing a change of clothes, water, duct tape and an improvised emergency photo ID that I'm sure won't look the least bit suspicious. I drape my dog tags over my neck and head out the door slowly, waving good bye to a couple nurses as I do. No one tries to stop me, they all think I'm a freeloader, and they're happy to be rid of me. I assume. I grab a map in the front hall and look up the train station. I've got a lot of traveling ahead of me, got to keep my mental momentum up. I do a few twists in the front lobby, which my side is none too appreciative of, and head out into real sunlight for the first time in over a month. At least that hasn't been spoiled for me yet.

### Chapter 45

Arguing with people at the train station who don't really speak English is fun and educational. It turns out getting three quarters of the way across South America, and up through Central America, takes six trains and three buses. It's far. I'm on train number one now, and it's hot, about as loud as you would expect a giant train to be, uncomfortable, and overall terrible. I miss my hard hospital bed. I miss my actual bed in my actual house, but that's probably not even waiting for me when I get back. Dead men's college loans and rent don't magically get paid.

Maybe my loans will be forgiven. Dead for a month or more needs to come with some sort of benefits. So far, all I've been able to determine is that my death hasn't been mentioned in any of the four magazines I found in the train station that are actually written in English. I wish Diego had thought to leave me some reading material.

I start thinking about what it will be like when I get back. I think I've just been assuming that everything was going to go right back to the way it was before. And that that life is something worth missing. Like I'm longing for the days of being bored out of my mind and beating my brain to death while my two best friends slowly go crazy and blame all of their problems on me. The good old days when I would putt along mindlessly, doing my damndest to avoid doing anything.

I think I was miserable before I left. I'm sure I was miserable while I was gone. Damned if I know what I am now. I exist in this strange pseudo-state of mind where I drive my body around like it's a robot suit. Only seem to be able to tell after it's already too late. I wonder what the hell there is to look forward to. My parents jumping up and down because I'm alive, when I've been dead to them for years. How excitingly fake. A lawsuit that doesn't bring anyone back from the dead or stop anyone else from getting killed later. A best friend who's forgotten how to do anything but hate everyone, another who's probably going to live in the nuthouse before he turns thirty.

At least there's Chelsea, the closest thing I have to a real friend. Until she remembers what a bastard I am and starts hating me.

### Chapter 46

I step off bus number four (liars) in the sweltering heat of a border town that's name has blended into all the names of all the other towns I've gotten off buses and trains in. I can see the bridge at the border in the hazy distance, unless I'm getting delirious. My side is aching, killing me from sitting up and rehabbing and traveling for a number of hours I won't let myself think about. Despite this, I hoof it, and I walk fast. There's only so much waiting a guy can take.

It's the second longest walk of my life, thanks to the pain, heat, and a lack of patience, but I make it up to the guard booth on the pedestrian walkway before any sort of exhaustion-based collapse. There's no foot traffic, even if the road is clogged with bumper to bumper traffic. I hope I don't have enough of a tan to make the guy question my nationality. "Name and country of citizenship, please."

Straight to the point. Hasn't even looked at me yet. "Nathan Werner, United States Department of Homeland Security Special Security Project Operations, sir. American, born and raised."

He looks me over through his big, reflective sunglasses that seem just a bit too cliché on a border guard. He doesn't appear to be quick enough to catch the fake patriotism of a fake soldier like me. "Don't happen to have a passport or passport card on you to verify your identity, do you, soldier?"

"No, sir. I was injured and separated from my unit. It's been a long, hard road getting myself back to the U. S. of A, sir."

"Any contraband on you, son?"

"No, sir, not so much as a cigarette."

"Your face looks familiar. Why don't you hang around for a bit? I just need to make a phone call."

Get the hell on with it, then. It's hot out here. "Go right ahead, sir."

He walks across the booth, picks up a black wall phone and makes a call, watching me all the while. Maybe I should have put more emphasis on just how badly my life has sucked for the last two months. He talks into the receiver, too quietly for me to hear, nodding every once in a while, staring at me every time he remembers to look up from the phone. I consider making a break for it. I could get across the bridge, barring my muscles seizing up, but then what? Get shot down by INS or retreat into Mexico for the next ten years and give up all of my elaborate plans? I stand at the booth instead and take my chances with Guardy McGuardsen. Side hurts too much to exert myself anyways. Mr. McGuardsen hangs up the phone emphatically and walks over towards me. "If you are who you say you are, welcome back to America, young man. A unit will arrive here to debrief you within four hours. Until then, I'm going to have to ask you to stick around."

He's wearing an "I'm tough and you suck a little bit less than I thought you did" smile that tells me I was more than right about their cover story: they labeled me a hero. This is going remarkably well.

### Chapter 47

Except for the part about the debriefing. Sometimes I get a little caught up in what's going on, especially if it seems quite good, and don't really notice that I'm wandering into a dastardly trap. Or, in this case, waiting in the break room next to a border-crossing station thing with two armed guards to stop me from running off. For a lot longer than four hours. At least they feed me. Long distance travel is hungry business.

Now a big black van has pulled up outside looking nice and ominous. I assume it's here to disappear me forever. One of the guards escorts me over to the door. Boredom makes it difficult to maintain my act, so I can't help but spout off a little at the mouth. "If I never return, tell the world my story."

The guard eyes me like I'm a crazy person. Maybe I am. "Just get in the van, kid. You're representing your country now."

"In a van?" He shoves me out the door in a "we are not amused" sort of way, and the side door of the van slides open. I say a little prayer that the A/C has been serviced recently and climb in. It's like heaven in the van, seventy degrees at the hottest. My best buddy in whole wide world, Percival Zogby, is sitting in one of the back seats, and he motions for me to sit next to him. Lacking any better options, I do, and catch a glimpse of Allen Hartley slamming the door shut, then wordlessly climbing back into the driver's seat. Percy doesn't look at me while he talks, instead investing his attention in the aesthetic value of his favorite stack of papers. "Nathan Werner, I presume?"

"Shouldn't you know me by now, man? We've met at least three times. We've had conversations. I've been quite witty. Certainly enough to be memorable."

He looks at me for a second, then back down at his stack of papers. "I apologize, but I simply cannot recall every soldier I encounter once or twice."

"Three times or more. You unlocked my handcuffs. We bonded."

He stops shuffling through his papers for a moment, but still doesn't look at me. "No, that doesn't sound familiar at all."

"Fine, we didn't bond. But we did talk at length."

"I'm sorry if I've offended you, Mr. Werner. I shall try to remember you in the future."

"Just how regularly do you deal with soldiers who were shot by their commanding officers and left for dead for refusing to murder children?"

He takes his glasses off and looks at me, exasperated. "Is that what you think happened? That won't do at all. Especially when I have eyewitnesses who saw you fall to enemy fire whilst fleeing the field of battle without a retreat order, Mr. Werner."

My fists clench themselves tight enough to hurt. "You have one eyewitness, the one who shot me, and a few bloodthirsty, babbling maniacs who aren't going to be worth much in court."

He holds out a stack of papers from somewhere around the middle of his larger pile. "These are five of the written and signed affidavits, all consistent, that label you a deserter. They never have to see the light of day, Mr. Werner. There are only two ways things can go here. It is up to you to decide which path we follow."

Swear words.

### Chapter 48

"One more time, if you will, Mr. Werner."

"I was a member of a covert unit, whose location of deployment is classified, running a counter-terrorist operation. We were ambushed in the middle of the night, while John "Popsicle" Hodges, Kelly "Sideeyes" Stone, and I were on watch. Kelly was killed in the ambush, John and I managed to force a retreat and pursued the enemy. We were accosted by a force that greatly outnumbered us. John was killed in the firefight; I was shot in the abdomen.

"The enemy left me for dead and pursued the main portion of my unit. I managed to fire off a flare to warn them, then hid in a small cave, where I gave myself emergency medical attention as I was trained. I lost consciousness in the cave for a period of time, and by the time I emerged, my unit had, unfortunately, moved on. The area was not secure enough to conduct a thorough search with a unit as small as ours, and they had to assume that I had been captured by the enemy. Were I in their position, I would have conducted myself in the same manner.

"I managed to make my way to a local hospital, where I was treated, and eventually allowed to contact the army, who immediately dispatched a helicopter to airlift me back home. Did I miss anything?"

Percy smiles a little and shakes his head. "I believe that was everything, Mr. Werner. Just try to sound a bit less practiced when speaking to the press, though. These are your words, not ours."

"If I tell the press."

"It is the only smart option, Mr. Werner. You will be afforded an honorable discharge, and you can return to your old life. You will never have to deal with us again."

"And if I decide that I've got a little bit of integrity left?"

"You will be court-martialed, and you will lose. You will spend a significant amount of time in prison and be dishonorably discharged from the army. And no one will believe you."

"Do I get any medals? I'm the kind of guy that thrives more on positive reinforcement than threats."

"There is no structure for awards in the SSPO, unfortunately. There is nothing to be done for you in that respect."

"That won't do at all. You're going to have to borrow some awards from a real branch of the armed services, and you're going to have to make it good."

"I assume a purple heart for being injured in battle will suffice."

"That's it? Give me marksmanship and something rewarding me for incredible bravery. One of the big ones."

"Our records show that you refused to even fire a gun through all of basic training, as well as while on deployment."

"But your story involves me shooting, doesn't it? Look, if I'm going to be lying through my teeth, I'm going to at least need something seriously shiny to help me keep it down. If I'm firing an imaginary gun, I want to be firing it damn well."

"I will see what I can do. Do we have a deal?"

"As long as my uniform is suitably shiny when I step out to that podium. It'd better be national press, too."

### Chapter 49

There's one camera and six reporters staring at me while I'm standing at this little podium top that's resting on a collapsible table. They seem to be buying my story. Maybe it's the uniform. "At which point, I fired a flare up to warn my unit that the enemy was returning, though it compromised my ability to hide myself. I then found a small cave, where I gave myself emergency medical treatment and tried to radio my commander. Unfortunately I found that, though my radio hadn't been damaged, it was nonfunctional. I remained in the cave through the night and well into the next morning, but my unit never came.

"Eventually, my injuries dictated that I take further actions to save myself. I returned to the camp, which my unit had already broken. I attempted to track them for several miles, but could not keep pace in my state. When their trail came close enough to a town, I broke off of it and walked to a hospital. Luckily, I was able to speak enough of the local language to get myself properly treated. Just two days ago, I was able to contact command and have myself airlifted home.

"I am terribly sorry, but I must excuse myself now, as I am still in recovery. Please direct any questions you have to Mr. Hartley. Thank you." I stride off the stage, standing up all straight like I'm a real soldier, and the special forces guy takes my place at the podium. Zogby appears from nowhere, and he's on me almost immediately after I'm out of sight of the audience.

"That was not the story we agreed upon, Mr. Werner. My superiors will be very disappointed."

"Sorry. Must have forgotten. Maybe you should have thought about my memory before you stuck me with the bronze star. A silver one would have gotten you a much better story."

"You do realize that this will compromise your position, as well as your discharge..."

"The army just stuck me up on CNN with that story, are you really planning on totally changing things now? That might make you look a little bit like idiots, don't you think?" Oh yeah, Percy. It's on now. You will be hearing from my lawyer.

### Chapter 50

Nowhere to live. My buddies didn't renew the lease on the house; they went off and got their own apartments, with real roommates and everything. I figure they probably hate each other by now, and they certainly hate me. The only place that leaves me to stay is with my parents. Kill me now, please. I can almost hear the unique combination of excitement and disapproval now, and I haven't bothered to head over there yet. I'm at a diner, blowing a little bit of the hush money Diego left me on a deluxe cheeseburger platter, a milkshake and mozzarella sticks. Real food.

It dawns on me suddenly, like the sky cracked open and God himself lit a light bulb over my head. I have an option. It's early June, Chelsea is back from school and subletting a two bedroom apartment some guy uses when he's going to school around here. I always thought it was a stupid setup, but it has a bedroom in it that nobody lives in. I get a few dollars change after I finish my meal and give her cell a call from the payphone.

"Hello?"

The familiar voices makes the milkshake slosh in my stomach, and a shiver runs down my spine. "Chelsea. It's Nate. I'm home, finally."

The line is silent for a few seconds. It's not until I'm just about to start talking again that she speaks. "I'm mad at you."

"Why? What'd I do?"

"You let us all think you were dead! There was no phone in the hospital? You couldn't at least give one person a call once, and let us know you made it? We had a funeral for you, Nate!"

"Calm down. I'm sorry. Things were crazy when I was out there."

"I heard."

"They were a lot crazier than you heard. I'll explain it later, when I'm not on the phone."

"What do you want, then? This is probably the first time you've called me. Ever."

Hmm. Then how did I know her number? "I need a place to stay until I get back on my feet. You still have a second bedroom available?"

"You do realize that Jeff would kill us both if he even heard that you asked that, let alone you actually lived here, right?"

"You can't tell me you're still going out with Jeff." Silence on the other end. I insert another quarter. "You've got to be kidding me."

"He's gotten a little bit better since you've been gone. Well...he's working on things."

Sigh. "He'll be happy I'm back for the first ten minutes at least. That should pad the blow of you putting me up."

"You're going to be the one to sell it to him, not me. Don't tell him I said yes yet."

"You didn't."

"Good. I didn't mean to. I'm sorry about this, Nate. I really am happy you're back."

"I've got boatloads to tell you about. I'm gonna sound like the craziest person you've ever met. Crazier than Johnny."

### Chapter 51

Over and over, I puff the greatest tasting blunt I've ever touched. Man did I miss mind-numbing stupors. I pass the blunt to Johnny and lean back in his big, overstuffed chair. My body doesn't feel too terrible now that I'm able to choose what position to recline in.

"Well?" Jeff hasn't been too big a dick since I got back, considering I'm living with his girlfriend, but I guess he can't resist any more. "Did you kill anyone?"

I look at him, and take a long time to answer. He, Johnny, and Chelsea are all looking at me expectantly. "Hell, no. I didn't do anything for those people."

Johnny talks while holding a hit in his lungs. "What about the guys you helped chase off at night? In the ambush?"

"The ambush was total bullshit, man. Everything I said up there was a lie. They made me lie to make themselves look better."

"Yeah, right." I can always rely on you, Jeff, to assume the worst of me. "You did what they said the whole time, like a good little pussy, and you know it."

"No, actually, I fought them every step of the way. They beat the hell out of me over and over and over, and I kept saying 'I'm not killing people for you,' and they kept hitting me, and they put me in handcuffs for I don't even know how many days." I pull my sleeves down and show them the purple scars that go around both wrists. "They kept trying to beat me down, to push me just hard enough that I would crack." My eyes are a bit teary now and my voice has a little bit of a crack in it, but I've got too much momentum built up to stop. "But I kept saying 'Fuck you, you murderers!'"

Jeff leans forward and takes the blunt that Johnny passes him. "Calm the hell down, man. Don't go all Vietnam flashback on us. That stuff doesn't happen. You're losing it."

"They shot me, man! You want to tell me that didn't happen?"

Chelsea puts her hand on my shoulder. Even as worked up as I am, I see Jeff tense up. Chelsea leans over. "We know they shot you, Nate. It's been all over the news...."

"My own commander shot me!"

The room goes silent. I reach across and take the blunt from Jeff while my heart refuses to slow down. Chelsea takes her hand off of my shoulder. "Everything they're saying is a lie. They want me to disappear. They want me dead. They'll probably," I puff, "still come after me. There's some evil shit going on up there. Believe me." Something in me makes me glance over at Chelsea, like she's the only one who'd ever believe it. We make contact, then her eyes point straight at a blank spot in the wall.

Johnny has gone into his silent mode, he holes right up the second anyone yells. I wipe my face and pass the blunt to him. It takes him a few seconds to take it. Jeff shakes his head. "You have to at least admit that you sound totally insane. It's pretty hard to believe."

"You want to see insane? Talk to anyone else in my unit, they all lost their minds. Oh, wait, you can't talk to them. They've been disappeared by the government just like I'm going to be. Do I really need to give you more proof?"

Chelsea sighs. "So what are you going to do?"

"There's not much I can do. If I make much of a stink, I'm sure they'll show up on my doorstep, and I'll disappear like all the rest. How the hell do you beat the most powerful country in the world by yourself?"

### Chapter 52

Two blunts and nine beers later, Chelsea goes to bed, and it's just me and Jeff sitting on the floor, drinking. Like old times. Johnny went home hours ago. I finish beer number ten in six or seven prodigious gulps, and feel like I could pound twenty more. I choke down the laugh rising up in my throat. "So...do you still have my back, man?"

Jeff takes a long pull, emptying his beer save the very end, and moving on to the next bottle, which he already has at the ready. "What the hell kind of question is that? With the kind of stuff we've been through together, I'd still have your back if you killed my mother, man. True blue, man. Till the god damn end."

I don't have the heart to tell him we haven't been through anything compared to what there is to go through. I struggle to my feet and over to the fridge. "That's good, man. We're a dying breed, man. No matter how messed up it gets." I pop the top off the beer and take a long, hard pull. I think for a second, then grab a second beer. "No matter how messed up the world gets, I'll always be there if you need me."

"Too bad you're useless."

"I'm trying to have a moment here!" I wander back over and sit on the floor again. "Things are going to go nuts around here. It's following me. I'm causing trouble big time and I don't think I can stop. They shot me. They're not screwing around. I'm done screwing around."

"What are you asking me to do?"

He's looking at me with a sort of drunken, intense, sincerity that I know makes him think he can take on the government, the army, or whoever else. He hasn't thought this through like I have, though. "Nothing. Nothing yet. I just...I don't know. I want to make sure that if I go down in flames, there'll at least be somebody who cares."

"Dude, if you're going down in flames that means I've already burned to death trying to save your ass. But the government is in for a nasty surprise if they think they're coming after my boy."

Jeff has a bit of a superhero complex. I finish a beer and open the next while I contemplate his vague but oft-alluded-to prowess. "We've never done anything on this scale, man. There's starting fights with football players after school and there's starting fights with the whole western world. Besides that, we're out of practice. And not as young as we used to be."

He slams his empty bottle down. It doesn't break, surprisingly enough. "Please, man. You can't nuke one guy. That advantage is negated." Yeah, you can't nuke one guy. That's what you need unstoppable berserkers for instead.

### Chapter 53

I called Chelsea's pre-law friend, then called his professor then called the professor's lawyer friend who recommended a woman by the name of Shera Toffens to take my case. She's dealt with the armed forces and veteran's rights (and I'm a veteran?) several times, apparently. Has experience getting people money if they're injured because of faulty or insufficient equipment, or other forms of negligence. That kind of makes me feel clever that I threw in that bit about the radio. Even more clever than I thought I was when I did it.

It took her _forever_ to return my phone call. Then, when she finally calls me back, she's like "My rate is $500 an hour, and I require a $5000 retainer. Should the total amount of time spent on your case be under ten hours, you will receive a refund of the difference. Should it exceed ten hours, or should expenses beyond the initial retainer be accrued, you will be billed at the conclusion of the proceedings for whatever my firm deems pertinent to request as payment. Any cash settlement or judgment can be used to pay the remaining balance and fees, should they still be withstanding, at the time of disbursement, as well as a percentage of said sum which is dedicated to future assurances of success. In the event that the settlement or award does not cover your expenses accrued you will be responsible for the difference within thirty days of the termination of legal proceedings. We have numerous options available for lower interest, short term financing plans with monthly and bi-monthly billing cycles. Do you understand these terms as I have presented them to you?"

My brain spins. I got that I'm being screwed straight over, but not really a whole lot else. "Are you charging me for this phone call?"

"No, sir, this phone call is classified as a complementary consultation and will remain free as long as my services are eventually contracted and paid for in full. Should you choose to pursue another direction, you will be charged for this call at my standard rate, rounded up to the nearest hour, at a minimum of two hours, plus several nominal, fixed processing fees which are, of course, nonnegotiable."

"...can you do that?"

"Clearly."

"Right. So you've heard my story, right? What sort of chances do you think we're looking at?"

"Because putting you in front of the press and not immediately or preemptively disclaiming your statements constitutes an implicit endorsement of the facts as you presented them, your case is fairly strong. Since the radio itself was never recovered and there is no one still living who can testify that you did not actually try to radio Miss Green, the only thing they can do is prove that the radios themselves have a reasonably low fail rate."

"Which would totally screw me over?"

"Judges rarely choose consumer reports over human lives, Mr. Werner. Clearly, you were wounded. Any wounded soldier would try to contact help in any way available to him. We also know for a fact that no help came. No public relations professional in the world would recommend arguing that the radio worked."

Score. The plan is working beautifully. "So you think we're going to win?"

"I don't think they'll allow it to go to trial. We should get an offer for a settlement shortly after contacting them."

"So what do I do?"

"Prepare a $5000 retainer. Once you get that to me, I will draft a letter, which you will sign, and we will send it to their law offices. Simple as that."

This is going to be the best $5000 I ever spent. I hang up the phone. All I have to do is find a way to muster $5000 in the first place.

### Chapter 54

I've got three hundred of the dollars that Diego gave me left in my wallet, next to nothing in the bank, no material possessions that anyone would ever be interested in buying, no skills that even come close to being marketable, and a pile of student loan debt so big even a certain McDuck would balk at it. My friends are poor as hell for the most part, not that they would loan me the money if they even had it, and I haven't had the requisite humility to ask my parents for a dime since I was twelve years old, if even then. Not that they would have $5000 just lying around to begin with. Chelsea might, though. Every summer she works her ass off and saves money for the school year. I'd hate to kill her bank roll, since she actually needs it and everything. I'll just ask to eliminate the possibility. She'll say no and then I'll miraculously come up with another option. I won't be able to utilize my full creativity if I think I have an ace in the hole.

I head over and give a knock on her door. Her music turns off after a couple of seconds and she yells through the hollow wood door, "What's up?"

"I've got another huge favor to ask you, just in case you feel like maybe you haven't hooked me up quite enough lately."

There's a few seconds of silence, then she opens her bedroom door. "It's going to have to wait."

I look at the floor. I expected to at least get the question out. "Uh, okay. I guess we can talk about it later?"

Chelsea rolls her eyes in and exaggerated manner, and grabs me by the wrist. "Well, don't kill yourself about it." Maniacal grin. "It's going to have to wait, because of this!" She pulls on my arm, rolling her other hand out like a magician revealing his assistant chopped to pieces. "Behold, my genius!"

After a few seconds, I figure out what she's pointing to. There's this ratty old chair under her window, something she probably found in the garbage. Only she's got it wrapped up with fabric—flannel sheets, maybe?—so it looks like it might not be a piece of garbage that someone sacrificed to an army of alley cats. I get the sense that she's waiting for me to say something about this. "Uh, is your genius _under_ the sheets?"

She punches me in the arm, and it's only then that I realize that that totally sounded like some kind of sex joke. "Shut up, jerk! You know it looks great. It's like, a new chair!"

I chew on my lip for a second. "No, you know, obviously, it's great. You should quit school and get a job pinning sheets to chairs."

"Come on!"

"No, really, I'm serious. I see a great future for you. Chelsea's Chairs, you could call it. People love alliteration."

"I'm going to murder you while you sleep."

"Okay. Before you do that, though, I was wondering...."

"You hurt its feelings, you know."

"I hurt the chair's feelings?"

"Look. There." She gestures toward the wreck. "It's starting to weep."

"I think that's cat pee."

She tries to fight it, but winds up laughing pretty hard. In a gloriously snorty way. "Well, I wasn't going to let you sit on it, but _now_ ..." With a big step forward, she jerks my arm hard towards the chair.

"No no no no no!" I am hurled towards the chair that weeps, and wind up getting my feet tangled while trying to avoid it. In slow motion, I tumble onto the rug, while Chelsea laughs and laughs. "Now, we know you're both morally and financially bankrupt, since you steal furniture from dumpsters and try to cover your friends in urine, but I was thinking, if you had maybe some money lying around, say from your super-lucrative upholstery racket, maybe you would want to make an investment or something. You know, on a sure thing, like lending me $5000 so I can hire this really impressive sounding lawyer and sue the crap out of the army?"

"Sure."

"Sure? That's it? You're just going to give me that kind of money without any sort of interrogation?"

"If it will help show those people that they can't just play with the lives of real people, I don't see why not. I mean, I know I can trust you to pay me back when you can. The most important thing right now is holding these people accountable for the terrible things that they did."

"And winning oodles of money. And retiring on the French Riviera."

She smirks. It's very cute. Not that I would ever notice that sort of thing. "That's a distant second."

"But it's still second. And maybe not too distant. Like maybe just in a photo finish."

Menacingly, she looks from me, to the chair, and back to me. "Keep it up and you'll get _the chair_."

"I think I withdraw the request?"

"Too late. You owe me for life now."

"Just until I inevitably win and wind up super rich."

She laughs. "I'm only helping you out of pity, since I know no one else likes you."

"Don't kid yourself, girly. You love me. We both know it. You can't get enough of my war hero manliness."

"You do realize that I just saw you lose a fight with furniture, right?"

"Just for that, I'm borrowing $6000 now, and spending all the extra money on drugs and hookers."

She pats my head, an expression of mock sympathy on her face. "Poor stupid baby."

### Chapter 55

Time passes. A lot of time. I drop the check off at Shera's office, just like I'm supposed to, and she says she'll get right to work on the letter. Then a week passes. I call her, she's just stepped out, so I leave a voicemail. She gets back to me a week later and says that she's been swamped lately, and hasn't touched my case yet, but that it's at the very top of her list. I call her the next day and leave a voicemail, just to let her know I got the message, and am waiting with baited breath for the letter to come.

The letter doesn't come, so I call her every week day for two weeks, sometimes twice a day. Every time I call, the same receptionist asks who's calling, then asks me to hold, disappears for five seconds, then tells me that Shera just stepped out. I leave a message every time, and I try to keep them friendly enough. She doesn't return my calls. I get royally pissed off every time. I'm starting to kind of feel like the lawyer just up and stole my money. Can you sue your own lawyer?

Now I'm lying on my bed, staring up at the ceiling. Jeff and Chelsea are in the other room. They're arguing, so it's a pretty normal day. Jeff has this compulsion in him, where he can't allow things to seem good for too long. He has to start smashing things, metaphorically or physically. The walls are more than crappy enough for me to hear every repetitive word.

"I never thought I'd see the day. He's my best friend, you're my girl friend, and you two would rather see each other than me!" The man actually has a point in this particular rant. I rarely see him these days, and I don't really miss it. "You two aren't even friends!"

"What does that even mean? Of course we're friends! You're the one who wanted us to be friends in the first place. Don't you remember?"

"You can't be friends with my friends, that's not how this works! You have your own friends."

"And Nate happens to be one of them. What, exactly, is the big problem with that?"

"That he's _my_ best friend! Why do you want to take him from me?"

"No one's taking any one from you, Jeff." Her voice cracks mid sentence. It's much quieter than just a moment before. I get sick of eavesdropping, and I've heard this part plenty before. This is when Jeff guilt-trips her into comforting him for the rest of his days and decides he won the fight somehow. Ho hum.

I get up and out of bed, leave my room, and head to the front door, but the mail on the floor catches my eye. A second later, a letter addressed to me is sitting in my hand. I'm pretty sure I'm not getting drafted this time, though. It's from what's-her-face, the lawyer. It's the letter she's sending to the SSPO guys, finally. My instructions are to read it over, sign it, and mail it out in the enclosed addressed and stamped envelope, for which I am paying materials and packaging fees.

I read the letter carefully, like a kid reading a letter Santa wrote him. Or something. To be honest, the letter kind of sucks. Reading through it, it seems sort of like she forgot everything we talked about, and then tried to piece it all back together in about five minutes while she had to go to the bathroom and the TV was on. Oh, well. It gets the point across, more or less. I totally could have done a better job without a lawyer, though. Nothing I can do about it now but sign the letter, drop it in the mail, and picture their faces when they see my name pop up again.

### Chapter 56

They don't cave so easily, probably because the letter sucked so bad. Now we've got a meeting together to discuss things. Big time stuff. I'm in a nice, fancy looking cheap suit that does not fit me, not by a long shot. Shera is in one of those women's suits that looks like it cost the bulk of her retainer. I assume that she's charging me for it, some sort of presentation fee or something like that. We're waiting together in the neutral territory conference room thing in a seemingly random office building that's probably inconvenient for everyone to get to. It's covered in pseudo-art you can buy at those picture stores in the mall and smells of cleaning fluid. The expensive wooden table in the middle of the room looks out of place with the cheap swivel chairs they sell at big box stores for fifteen bucks a pop. The SSPO is late. We've been waiting for over half an hour and we weren't particularly early. I'm being charged for all of this waiting. I'm guessing this is a power play. It's a good one. My heart is pounding. I can't sit still. I want to get them, and it's so close. I don't even want their money, I don't care about it. I just want to see them have to give it up.

And then something changes. Behind the wall, in the next room over, there's a low rustling sound. Then that high pitched tone I spent three months of my life listening to clicks on, super quiet so I can barely tell it's there, but there nonetheless. I'm standing in an instant. There will be none of that in _my_ neutral territory. Shera looks at me like she wants to say something, but I hold up one finger like "Hold the hell on, there's something important that I need to do and you wouldn't understand."

The motion is enough to keep her quiet for long enough for me to get out of the room and over to the door next door. It's unlocked. Suddenly my heart is pounding and I'm really not sure I want to do this, but at the same time I can't endure a meeting with that tone in my head, not when I think I know what that tone is. Kind of can't believe they're trying it again. I shove the door open hard, and the beyond it is special agent Allen Hartley, Allen _fucking_ Hartley, sitting on a low top stool and playing one of the games in the newspaper. That's hardly what I expected.

He looks up when the door bounces off the wall, and we lock eyes. I'm not sure that I actually plan to do anything, but I figure if I start talking angrily enough maybe something will come out. "What the hell is going on here?"

He doesn't smile. He's not the kind of guy who has expressions. It's all business, even that Sudoku puzzle he can barely keep his eyes away from. "Just following orders, Nate. Good to see you again."

He remembers me. Unlike some people. It doesn't mitigate my anger, though. "Turn it the hell off."

He sighs and stands up, putting the folded over paper down on the table nearby. "I have orders. You know I can't just do something like that. You'd have to make me. Are you prepared to do that?"

It sounded a little too nice to be a threat, but now I'm looking the guy over and seriously considering trying to use force. He's bigger than me, stronger than me, and I already know he's got a tiger punch that can put down a rabid human being in one hit if he gets a clear shot. I'm not making him do anything. Damn. Guess the meeting is off. "Go to hell, Hartley."

I spin on my foot and stomp out of the room, slamming the door shut behind me. The tone is still sounding away, making a muscle in the back of my neck switch from its constant, grating presence. I'm back in my conference room with Shera a few seconds later. "Reschedule the meeting, and make it somewhere they can't just...somewhere secure. Maybe your office maybe or something."

She stares at me for a couple seconds like I'm sounding paranoid. Then the door creaks open.

### Chapter 57

My best friend in the whole world, Percival Zogby, walks in. I was hoping it would be him. I'm sweating and that tone is digging into my brain, but Percival Zogby is here and it's too late to cancel. Shera stands up immediately and shakes his hand. She looks too eager to please for my tastes, and I do the same thing but grudgingly and slowly. There's a pause, like we're all waiting for something to happen, but we don't know what. Patrick Hall walks through the door slower than anyone who isn't clearly just trying to make a dramatic entrance would walk.

Shera's face lights up when she sees him, and she shoves past me to shake his hand like he's the president of being Gandhi. "Mr. Director, it's an honor to have you here! I've been an admirer of yours ever since your inspiring speech at my graduation...."

He interrupts her by holding a hand up, which works immediately for some reason, but also makes him look unbelievably pompous. He holds this hand out for a few seconds, just flat in the air, during which everyone stays still and silent, like he's about to perform a miracle and we're all terrified that we might miss it. I hate him. This is all his fault. Why the hell does everyone else seem to love him so much? He lowers his hand slowly, maybe he thinks his greatness will hurt us if he moves too fast, and breaks the silence he made with his magical mind powers, "Of course. It's good to see you again." You spoke at her graduation. You probably never even met. You are not old friends. Die of a heart attack. "Please, sit."

Zogby sits first, quickly, like he just wants to get this over with, then Shera sits opposite him after a moment of hesitation. I stare into Pat's eyes with beams of concentrated hate. He extends his fat hand to shake mine; I glance down at it, then back into his eyes. I shake my head ever so slightly, the kind of shake that you're not sure if it even happened at all, then lower myself slowly into my cheap swivel chair. That tone seems to be getting louder, coming from every direction at once. My teeth are numb. Pat walks deliberately over to the other side of the table and sits opposite me. He talks low and slowly, like he's not almost being sued, like he wants to savor this meeting. "Mr. Werner, it is good to see you as well. I'm sorry it is under such unpleasant circumstances that we meet again."

Every muscle in my body aches to punch him in the face. "Maybe you should have thought about that before...."

"Excuse me. I wasn't finished; please do not interrupt me again. Obviously I did not foresee the difficulty you would face upon your deployment. It is unfortunate what happened to you, Mr. Werner. You have my sincerest condolences, but there is nothing we can do about that now. Let us try to clear up this ugly business as quickly and civilly as possible. I believe we are all adults here. Mr. Zogby, I believe you have some paperwork already prepared."

I interrupt enthusiastically. "The way I see things, you kind of gave up your say in how this goes. You threw civility out the windows months ago. I'm going to make sure that you don't find dealing with me any easier than dealing with Ian or BJ or Santana or Gil. You destroyed their lives."

He slams his hand on the table, with a surprisingly loud bang, then springs to his feet faster than a fat old man like him should be able to. "I should put an end to these proceedings right now and never speak to you again, Mr. Werner. Your accusations are wild, baseless, and immature. You have no concept of what is going on, no matter what you may think you know. You cannot possibly fathom the scope...."

Percy jumps in, "Now, gentlemen, if we could return to the matter at hand."

I cut him off. Screw him, I'm pissed. "Yeah, yeah. I've been through all that before. You want to end the proceeding? Go the hell ahead, but I'll see you in court. And on the evening news, on the radio, and in all the papers. I'll make your project famous."

Shera finally has something to say, but she doesn't sound like she's on my side. "Nate, that's quite enough. There's no need to threaten Mr. Hall over this misunderstanding."

Pat does his magical hand motion and my guppy of a lawyer clams up. "You don't have anywhere near as much power as you think you have, Mr. Werner."

"But I'm damn persistent, basically bullet proof, and I'll sure as hell use whatever I've got to settle the score between us."

"You do not want to antagonize me, Mr. Werner. Not when I know so much more than you do about some matters that are extremely close to your heart. I can do far more to you than you could ever hope to do to me."

"Like kill me? That didn't work so well for you the first time. Your threats don't scare me any more than your minion's did. We're just going to have to see how much you can really do. Sign the papers, give me my money and take your best god damn shot."

I don't know where all of this is coming from, and I don't regret it so far. My hands are shaking. My whole face feels numb and my skin is burning. I'm not ready to cry, I'm ready for a fight. I've never been more ready for a fight in my life. I stare deep into Pat's fat face in silence, and he doesn't even blink back. The tone is so loud, almost deafening, and it's changing. There's a kind of whisper in it. He puts his hand on the paper, an agreement that Shera wrote that nets me $150,000 after her insane legal fees are taken out, and slides it over, in front of him. He barely glances at it before signing. I suppose that's not much money compared with the whole of his budget. Or his salary. He slides it back and stands up, turning his back toward the table. I smile and sign it, then pass it to Shera, and she signs it. She and Zogby stand up and shake hands. She's not smiling. Pat turns slowly, and she shakes his hand, looking like a puppy who just ate a family heirloom and knows it.

"I'm terribly sorry about this, Mr. Hall. I had no idea my client would behave so rashly. You can rest assured that neither I nor my firm will ever represent him again. I hope this will not reflect poorly on...."

You didn't do anything. Pat's fat face is less red now, like he's no longer going to go all cardiac arrest volcano on us, and his voice is low, slow and patronizing once more. "Let us not place blame here. Clearly the rigors of military service were too much for the boy. I can hardly hold his fragile mental state against you. It was wonderful seeing you again, though."

He nods cordially and shoos her and Zogby out of the room. I slowly stand up, with a nice flourish, and give fat Pat a contented smile. This is the first time I've really won at anything in a good long while. I want to enjoy it. "It's been nice doing business with you, old man. I hope I'm not the only one who feels worlds better now." I extend my hand, not really meaning for him to shake it.

He reaches out and snatches it in his big, hammy glove, and squeezes hard. I squeeze back, but not really as hard as he does, and pump twice, then release. He doesn't, just holds on like he's gone rigid. Maybe he did have a heart attack a minute ago. He jerks me forward, towards him, and leans in real close and whispers in my ear. "I own you now, boy. I just bought you and everyone around you. Your family, your friends, and your dead dog are all mine now; and I'm going to destroy every one of them before I finish you off."

He releases my hand and throws it down at my side, turns and stomps out of the room. I stand there frozen for a few seconds, listening to the buzzing in my head. Then something snaps inside me so loud I'd swear I could hear it, then everything is spinning and screaming and my whole body feels like it's on fire, like my heart is pumping molten lava. My head screams over and over in a language I can't understand. My fist finds its way through the fake wood paneling and a layer of drywall beneath it. I rip it out and take the panel with it, my knuckles dusty and battered and bleeding. It's all I can do to slow my breathing down.

### Chapter 58

I'm staring at myself in the mirror. I have been for twenty minutes. I don't feel like I can move right now. If I move, I might destroy something. Everything looks so fragile, but not me. I look mutated. Inhuman. Strong. I look the same. I look wrong. Something looks wrong. I know what's wrong. Fight it. It's not what's happening, what's happening is happening. The eyes are beating and pulsing. Hanging on silvered glass like two pounding hearts. My one heart is a pounding black heart that pumps nothing but pure heat. Fire.

The heat is incredible.

I can see every vein on my face, black and huge and pulsating. My hands rip my shirt off. They're all over me, the burning black lines racing like spiders under my skin, making me one of them, the people I hate now. I'm not them. They didn't get me. It can't be. I can't let them see they got me, don't want to breathe in, they'll see they got me, can't let them look until I'm better. Can't move until I'm better. Always now so slow, so strong. I can see it all. I'm not one of them. The heart eyes stare back at my black veins that are my brain and they're mine. They can see mine and they are mine. I can see that I lost because I lost and that was it. It was so quick. I stopped thinking. I let it get me and it came and it got me. So weak and so stupid. Strong, though. Strong when I think. Gotten, but not beaten. I didn't give up, couldn't have been beaten.

I'm on the ground suddenly and I can't see into the mirror from down here. Safe from me, lying flat. Can beat this with this. This is strength. Not crazy. I push myself back up to my knees and breathe slowly. The screaming never goes away. It wants me to give it up, wants me to hurt and smash and run and scream. It speaks the language of my hands and feet, a language my brain doesn't know, but all of me can tell what it wants. The screaming wants blood.

Not crazy.

Don't give up. What a man. Screaming in the head can't beat you if a bullet didn't beat you. It can't scream that loud. Remember that, force it down. Breathe. Slowly. I'm sitting back on my heels. Nothing is broken. Keeping track. I can do this. Can always do this. Can't lose to Pat. Pat thinks he'll beat me yet. Righteous indignation, that's the way to go.

Screaming. Real screaming and choking. Cough. I slap myself. Can't lose it, not for a second. How long was Gil like this? Not Gil. I'm not Gil, Gil is a murderer. I'm not a murderer. Won't. Standing. I'm standing and I'm beating this. The screaming is there. I can handle the screaming. The screaming is mine. I can control this.

I can control it.

I look in the mirror. Blue veins, dark but blue, blue, blue. They're blue. I can control it.

### Chapter 59

It's like moving through water, only I've been practicing, done it a hundred times. I can't help but choreograph every move I make before I make it. It's all so slow. I'm moving from my bedroom door to the front door of the apartment, barely looking I can tell it's seventeen steps, on the last step I know I'll plant my front foot, lift the back, lean forward, swing my right arm back as I grab the mail with my left, maintaining balance and reversing direction on the way up. It goes exactly as planned. There are two letters for me, two more than normal.

I throw Chelsea's mail on the counter six feet away, the small pile rotates four and a half times before landing, sliding eight inches, and fanning itself out. I open the first letter. My disbursement check from Shera, less her fees. One hundred and fifty thousand dollars, plenty for me to live on for a long time, even after paying Chelsea back. I flick it onto the counter; it lands on the other stack of mail, slides across it and comes to a rest on the counter parallel to, but half an inch from, the nearest letter. I know this without looking. This can't be what it's like for the others. Their movements are chaotic. I couldn't make an errant move if I tried.

I open the second letter with my right index finger. Student loan company seal on the top of the page. As of three days after the settlements paperwork was finalized I've moved into default status on all of my loans. My credit report will reflect this, and I must pay them all now or face a legal beat down, it says. I crumple the letter, my thumb pushing the bottom middle up between my middle and ring fingers while my pinky and index fingers fold the sides in. Thanks, Pat. Your opening salvo would hurt a whole lot more if you'd managed it before I got my money.

Fifty thousand dollars are gone, and I'm wondering how he's planning on getting the rest out of me. I've got nothing left to seize or default on or anything. Maybe he'll run up a ten thousand dollar cell phone bill in my name. He'll probably just set it up to look like I owe it all in taxes or something. He'll have to do better than that. I'll have to get him better than that. Remember not to forget to stay in control. Remember to use what he gave me against him. You can only screw with so many people before somebody screws back. Wait. I take that back. That sounds terrible.

It's hard to stay clever when you spend half of your time suppressing epic levels of bloodlust. A guy only has so much concentration.

### Chapter 60

Click, click, clack go the keys. Losing my mind has made me an excellent typist. I'm thoroughly impressed with myself. All of my stuff (what little I have) is in boxes stacked up behind me. Almost all of Chelsea's is as well. It's almost time for her to go back to school, and certainly just about time for me to get my own place. She's running around, trying to make sure everything is in order even though she's not leaving for ten days. I'm surfing across the interwebs, trying to come up with fifty thousand dollars worth of revenge ideas, and not getting very far. The hustle behind me convinces me to take a break. "Chelsea, you can't possibly pack for two weeks. Can you just chill for a bit, please?"

"I just want to get everything settled so I can just pick up and go, and not have to worry...."

"Like the school year might suddenly start three days early and you'll have to scramble to get there in time?" I'm wildly impressed by my ability to act natural, despite my wild, spinning mind.

"That's just stupid, Nate. If you're going to make fun of me, you'll have to at least make it funny."

"I can't think of any good jokes. My mind is consumed with an unrelenting drive for revenge."

"Excuses, excuses. It's probably just a coincidence. You were legally dead for over a month. Your loan might have...."

"How does a loan in deferment go into default? If no payments were expected for almost a year, how could my payments be over 120 days late? I'm no scholar, but I'm pretty sure that's not quite how time works."

"You don't have to get mad about it." Did I yell? I can control the volume of my voice, I just have to remember to. "I just don't think you should spend all of your time planning revenge on the guy. I know he screwed you, but you already got your money. There's plenty more to live for."

"And he took a chunk of it back!" Don't yell. "Besides, forget the money." I suck at this. Yelling at Chelsea is better than going on a murderous rampage, but it's still not good. "That didn't hurt him. He didn't even feel it. I've got to do something that he'll care about."

"What's the point?"

"He broke my mind!"

"What does that even mean?"

I didn't want to say that. I turn back to the computer screen and my escapist revenge fantasy. "Nevermind. Forget it."

She walks over to me, eight hard steps, and puts her hand on my shoulder. I could practically break it off from this position. But I'm not thinking about that, I'm in control. I pretend to ignore it and run another search. She squeezes. "No. Talk to me. Why can't you let this go?"

Click, clack. "It's complicated."

"And that's a copout."

Click, click, a link with promise. "I can't tell you. I can't talk about it. I can't think about it."

"Are you sure it exists?"

My eyes burn. Just a little, but enough to tell me it's not tears. "I'm not crazy. Please leave it alone. I'll tell you later, if I can."

"I hope you do." She lets go of my shoulder slowly and walks away, not nearly as chaotic and rushed as before. My brain is correcting her weight distribution in my memory while I stare at the screen. Pat's being honored by a veteran's society next week. There's a banquet. He's going to speak. It's not more than a two hour drive from here. It's perfect.

### Chapter 61

In the interim, I buy a car. I don't even try to find a place to live, that would be too responsible, but I get me a 1980 Lincoln luxury giant tank of a boat of a car. I love it. It could drive through a mountain and barely need to run the wipers. Now I'm parked on the top level of the parking garage of the hotel where Pat is speaking right now. I'm feeling good. I'm in total control. I'm sitting on the trunk of my car smoking a cigarette, planning what I have to say. I'm a veteran. I wonder why I wasn't invited.

I hop down off the car and flick my cigarette down at a thirty degree angle so it will land flat and roll instead of bounce. It doesn't bounce. I feel like the most dangerous person that ever lived right now. I might actually be. It's one hundred and forty six steps to the elevator, but the last is a little shorter than I'd like. My heart is pounding, but in a good way. Down one floor in the elevator, about twelve feet, then onto the pavement and across the street. It's like I do this every day. I've got to stay in control. Can't get too excited. My skin is cold. It's staying cold.

As casually as I can, I swing the door open, glance at the sign for the veteran's conference, and follow its directions to the Mandela room. It doesn't seem right for Pat to be speaking in that room. I pull the door open; the room is filled with a fifty-plus crowd, a few in wheelchairs, a bunch fat, most in uniforms. Vietnam vets, by the look of it. No one looks at me. Pat is still speaking. He has them all entranced, and he's caught up in it. Everyone loves the low and slow, even though it's mostly inane. He's heaping praise on them, most of which ends up being barely disguised pats on his own back for making them great in some way. No one seems to notice.

Along the side of the room, I slide my way up to the front, getting out of his line of sight as quickly as possible, but not fast enough to catch his eye. No one's looking at me. I'm moving like a cat. No, a cat would envy me if it was lucky enough to see me at all.

"And finally, I would like to thank you all for your continued support for our nation's armed forces, both at home and abroad. With the help of fine veterans like yourselves, and the incredible advances in military technology that I promise to bring to you, the United States can only improve on its status as the dominant peace-keeping force in this world!"

Cheers go up, accompanied by applause. Clearly these people don't see the irony of peace keeping through military domination. I hate them. Careful. Not here for them. Pat basks in it. The fourth and fifth buttons on his shirt are undone. When he turns I can see his fat, hairy stomach. No one else notices. Pat steps away from the podium and over to his seat next to Hartley. I wish Hartley wasn't here. There is a resurgence of applause. I walk behind the big facing table while the applause is going on and settle in behind the podium when I'm sure no one else is going for it. I'm confident. I'm wearing a suit. I look like I'm supposed to be there. Pat hasn't noticed me yet.

### Chapter 62

"Ladies and gentlemen, fellow veterans and veteranettes," a tiny bit of laughter from the crowd. "Patrick Hall has been like a father to me. Well, maybe a step-father." I get a slightly better laugh for my efforts the second time. "So when I heard he was being honored here tonight, I just had to come and pour some on."

Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Pat is whispering to Hartley, who isn't moving to get up. I've still got plenty of time. "When I was in the military, I always felt like I was different from the other soldiers, like I lacked some sort of killer instinct." I emphasize the last two words hard, without yelling. I can see him move back to look up at me. "But Pat showed me I had it all along. He showed me that I was just as strong as they were; that I was just like them, perhaps other than my relationship with him."

He leans back over and whispers to Hartley again. I'm sure he's canceling the security attack he just called in on me. He wouldn't want anyone doing anything to set off the ticking time bomb in the middle of the room, not when it's being so well behaved.

"He's shown me a lot of things. How not to button a shirt comes to mind." I lean over and pull on the open part of his shirt, showing his ugly, hairy stomach a bit, then release and stand back up too quickly for him make any real move to shove me away. No one laughs, but there's some grumbling in the back. "But seriously folks. I think the thing I like best about Pat, other than the drooling, is the megalomania. The guy is king of the universe in his head. Did you know that he personally invented a loophole in the Selective Service act that basically allows him to draft anyone he wants to, at any time, for any reason?"

They cut the microphone, but the enthusiasm has me talking plenty loud without it. "Oh yeah, folks. You'd better not piss him off. He might put you back in the army, ship you off to some exotic locale and order your commanding officer to shoot you in the stomach. That's just an example, of course, but you get the idea." Jaws are dropping. I'm making a fool of myself, but who gives a damn? I wish I could see Pat's face. "Of course, he might just go the old fashioned route and have you executed in the middle of the night. He's a very powerful man. Just not quite powerful enough to keep a punk kid from airing out his dirty laundry in public." I lean over towards him a little and speak more quietly. "I bet it's just eating away at you, isn't it, Patty? You're plotting my doom right now. I can see it on your face. You'd better make it good. I've already proven I can take a lot. Give me your best shot."

I pull the microphone from its clip and fling it at him. It hits him square in the face as I turn on my heel and stride out of the Mandela room. The place is silent as somebody rushes up to replace me at the podium and apologize profusely for the disturbance and harsh language. I walk out of the room unmolested, straight out of the hotel and across the street, all the while pretending that I don't notice the four guys who are following me out.

### Chapter 63

I take the stairs to the fourth floor of the parking garage because I'm half the age of my tails or less, and I want them to work for it. Two of them start walking a little faster once we're in the middle of the concrete floor, passing me on either side. Another comes up behind me on my right side. Without looking, I've got him at just shorter than me, two hundred pounds and a decent mix of fat and muscles. I skip a stride and he pulls even with me. His face is red and puffy, like he's been drinking for as long as I've been alive.

"Those were some terrible things you said about the director in there. We don't take kindly to party crashers who disrespect American heroes, young man."

I drape my arm over his shoulder, which surprises him. The other three men close in just a little bit, but don't make any motion to attack yet. "And now you fine gentlemen are fixing to give me a beat down, teach the kid a lesson, right? Save yourself the recovery time. The four of you wouldn't last two minutes against me."

He tries to pull away just a little, but I hold my arm tight on his shoulder and he doesn't want to make it look like he's struggling to free himself. He never should have let me put it on there in the first place. I've got to stay in control. He looks at me as best he can from such close quarters. "We're vets, all four of us, kid, and I'll have you know I was boxing champion...."

"You're drunk, overconfident in your numbers, and plan to rely on a fake fighting style you knew thirty years ago, which was rendered useless the moment I got close enough to grab you." I sound reasonable, in a scary way, I think. I know I'm right, but only after I listen to myself. It's autopilot. "If you're the best of the four, which the postures of your buddies seem to indicate they believe, we're looking at under thirty seconds, to be honest. I said two minutes to be nice. It's up to you if you want to take my word for it or not."

The one guy that's still behind me goes for a rabbit punch. I hear him set his feet a mile away and spin out of its path, reaching my arm over into a headlock on the presumed leader. My free hand grabs the rabbit puncher's wrist, tucks his arm under mine, then I hold it up while using his shoulder as a fulcrum to get more pressure on the neck of the leader. The result is a dislocated shoulder on a dominant arm. The leader squirms, but he's running out of gas quickly, and can feel that he's not getting anywhere. I twist number two's arm around further, and he yelps as I fling him to the ground, using his body to take out number three's legs as he charges me. Three hits the ground face first and makes no immediate move to recover. His head hit the ground hard, he's probably unconscious. He's draped over number two now, who's got a nasty dislocation and possible fracture.

The leader's barely putting up a fight any more, and four is coming at me. My free hand blocks his swing, twists his arm out and finishes its movements with an uppercut to the diaphragm. He loses any wind he may have had in those heavy old lungs of his and doubles over, which gets him kicked in the chest. The leader is limp by now, so I drop him on the concrete, then lean into the face of number two. "That was twelve seconds by my count. Tell Pat to go suck an egg."

I pull my keys from my front pocket, climb into my shiny new car and drive away, maneuvering carefully around the prone bodies as I go. It takes a while for my pulse to slow down. I feel good, very good, as I crank up the air conditioning. I don't so much as glance in the rear view mirror for the whole drive home.

### Chapter 64

I couldn't calm down the whole ride, and now it's getting bad. Everything is spinning in my head as I hop out of the car. It's like walking through water. I'm heading upstairs to Chelsea's soon-not-to-be apartment. I never should have let myself hurt them. It was wrong to hurt people, that's not what I do and that wasn't the _plan_. I enjoyed it too much and I can't turn it off. I'm at the door of the apartment. It swings open, unlocked. Immediately, I'm looking for a break in, and I know I'm going to hurt the crook that did it. Need to get calm. All is lost if I can't calm down. I'm not crazy.

There's no prowler, just Chelsea stacking up boxes. The place is almost bare. Just a couple days left until we have to be out. Until I live with my parents for the first time since high school. She looks at me and I hide my face. The angle is not quite right; she couldn't have seen much but my hair. I head straight for the bathroom as she calls to me, "Where have you been?"

I can't come up with a reason right now. There's too much spinning and screaming. I can't calm down. I hit the bathroom door, turn the knob and push myself in. Now she's worried, I can hear her coming towards me. My voice feels heavy, like I have to drag it out of myself from a sport buried deep, below the pounding and the screaming. "Can't talk now. Tell you later."

The door slams shut behind me and locks. I can't remember doing that. It's better now. I'm alone. Time to deal with this. The shower is on within a few seconds, spraying out the coldest water possible. Next I know I'm under the stream, sitting on the floor in the tub, getting bombarded with ice water while still wearing a suit. Maybe I'll catch hypothermia and die. I'd never be that lucky. I never should have let so much of the rage out. It's too hard to put it back in.

I feel every drop in each stream as it hits my skin and clothes. Each cold drop makes a tiny dent in the fire, but it's not enough. The water should be boiling away as it falls on me. I can't count fast enough to keep up with the drops, so instead I count the seconds. Concentrate as much as possible on the mindless forward march of time, of numbers. I glance at the mirror over the sink. The light is off and the angle is bad, I can't see myself. It's probably for the best.

At second two hundred and thirty, Chelsea tries the doorknob, then pounds the door. "Nate. Come out, please. I need to talk to you."

I turn the water off instinctively. I'm sitting in a pool of water in a soaking wet dry clean only suit. I throw the suit off piece by piece. "Be out eventually. Sorry, sorry." I dry off slowly, feeling each fiber in the towel as it passes over me. It's going to be okay, I just need to calm down. Just need to be calm. Happy. I left a t-shirt and shorts in the bathroom. Not the cleanest clothes in the world, but I'm not talking to Chelsea naked or soaking wet. I think my heart is going slower. Just need to keep my head on, it can't be too hard. The mirror hangs on the wall and I think about it, about how I should look into it and make sure, but I'm so, so tired suddenly. I open the door to the bathroom.

### Chapter 65

Chelsea's looking at me. I can't tell what she's looking for. She can probably see the blackness, but she doesn't know what it means. She hasn't run away screaming yet. I'm taking slow, deep breaths. My heart is still pounding, but not as hard as before. Trying not to seem crazy. I want to lie down on the floor where I'm standing and just stay there, frozen, forever.

She breaks the silence. "Why are you acting so crazy?"

_Not crazy._ "Just having a bad day. A bad day with bad things. Just stressed out."

"It's Pat, isn't it?"

"Who give a damn about Pat? He's just a doddering old piece of crap...." Calming down. Chelsea is not an enemy. I know this. "It's just, I don't know. I don't know."

"Yes, you do. Of course you do." She's staring right into my face and it's burning and I can feel the blackness and she's not afraid but she doesn't know she should be afraid but she should know, but she shouldn't be afraid. No one should be afraid of me. I would never hurt her. I'm not going to. I could never fall that far. I don't hurt people.

"Can't talk about it. Too complicated."

"Can you at least speak in complete sentences?"

I crack a smile, but it doesn't last more than a millisecond. I walk over to the couch, one of the few things that isn't packed up, and sit down. She sits next to me, very close. Her side is touching my side. My chest is shaking. I grip my knees tightly with my hands to stop them from doing the same. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'd tell you if I could. I just don't have it in me." My voice is shaking a little, and I stopped looking at her at some point, but she's still looking at me.

"You don't have to tell me, but you can. No matter what it is. You won't scare me away. You don't have to deal with this alone."

You bet your ass I do. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I don't know, I'm, I don't know. I'm sorry."

"You don't have to be." She leans over and kisses me on the temple. Electricity shoots from the spot through the rest of my head and down my spine. I put my arm around her shoulder and half hug her to my side. My mind flashes with the dozen different things I could do from this position that would prove lethal in seconds. I take a deep breath. There's no reason to start thinking that way.

"I don't want to go crazy." It just slips out. My face is red and I know she can feel the shaking. She twists around and stares straight into my eyes. They feel black and dead. I stare back. I think I'm trying to smile at her. She hugs me properly, and I sit there limp. She leans back and looks into my eyes again, then leans in and kisses me. It's right on the lips and it's ever so light and ever so brief, but it sets an alarm off in my head. I push her away, just a little. "No." I stand up, giving her no choice but to step out of the way. "No no no no."

Can't stop it or control it. Can't do this, not now. I head straight into my bedroom and shut the door. Am I loyal to Jeff or afraid of Jeff? Or afraid of Chelsea? I fall face down on my sheet-free bed. I'll just stay here forever, until the guy with the lease shows up and throws me out on the street. Then I'll lie on the street. As long as I never move again I can keep this under control.

### Chapter 66

After a good night's sleep and a day in a haze I'm able to become a human again, and once that happens I can face the next inevitable phase of my misbegotten life. Now all of my stuff is in the spacious trunk of my car, and I've still got enough room to smuggle two people across the border in it, should I so choose. I'm moving back in with my parents. This is the day every college dropout dreams of. I've barely even spoken to them in four years, I'm sure they're pleased as punch to have their failure of a son back, living rent free, with his pile of ill-gotten government money. I tell myself I'll find an apartment soon as I come around the bend onto my parents' street. There's something going on a few blocks down. Maybe I showed up just in time for the party. Not that my parents throw parties.

As I pull the car closer, it becomes apparent that these people are gathering outside my house. Some of them are neighbors I've known since I was five, some unfamiliar. I don't see my parents among the small crowd. I park in the street and get out of the car, leaving my luggage in favor of haste. The house is on fire. Why the hell didn't I notice that first? Both of my parents' cars are in the driveway, and they're not standing outside. The street is clogged with curious suburbanites, staring blankly at the blaze as it consumes my childhood home. I grab my neighbor, Mrs. Tanzey, out of the crowd. "Are they in there?"

She looks nervous. Maybe she's scared of me. Calm down. She didn't do anything. I'm not threatening her. I should probably let go. Not crazy. "I don't know...I...I guess I haven't seen anyone leave...."

"The fire department. They're coming, right?"

"They should be here any second...we called them ten minutes ago...."

"I don't hear any sirens." I let go of her arms and turn back to the house. Of course not. Why would they respond quickly to a giant fire that's probably killing people? It's getting huge, climbing out through the roof. The house is practically engulfed. I can't go in there. My mind keeps running through sequences I could try, different sets of motions I could use to get through the fire safely, but I have no idea what I'm doing. I don't know what kind of shape the structure is in, I don't know where the fire is coming from, and I don't have the lung capacity to last long enough to get my bearings in there and not pass out. My super powers are useless.

The wind has caught the fire, blowing it towards the next house over. The siding is melting and the upstairs is on fire. It'll be a death trap soon, too. Calm calm calm calm calm down. The fire shouldn't be making me so angry. You can't be mad at fire, but my skin is heating up all the same. I hear glass shatter. Someone kicked out a window on the second floor. My dad could kick out the window. Someone launches themselves out that window feet first, across the gap between the houses and though the mid-level window at the halfway point of the stairs of the burning house next door. My face goes numb. My father can't do that. No one can do that.

I run over to the door of my neighbor's house. I don't see them among the people outside. Who doesn't run outside during a fire? Damn it. I kick the doorknob off the front door then kick it in, while random bystanders are yelling random crap out behind me. My ears have already burned themselves shut. Stupid rubber-neckers, don't even have the decency to clear the adjoining houses.

The house is smoky, but not burning too badly yet. No sign that Mr. Athletic came down the stairs, so I run up, over the shards of broken glass, and into the upstairs. It's silent. Much smokier. I head away from the fire, into the master bedroom. The Foley's, an elderly couple that used to babysit me, are strewn across the floor. Their necks are pretty clearly snapped. BJ is across the room, staring out the window. I always hated BJ. The fire inside is welling up. "You son of a bitch. They send you after me, or did you come on your own?"

He turns, slowly. He's pretty sure he can take me; he's standing like he doesn't think I'll even attack. He's doesn't even think he'd have to try. I'm not entirely confident I can take him, I'm not like them. I'm no killer. The screaming in my head disagrees, but I'm no killer. "You should be more careful. People are starting to get hurt."

I take a step towards him, half surprised he can still talk, but with no time to worry about that. "My parents?"

"I made sure they would spawn no more of you, devil. You you you are bad bad bad. You must pay.

"Wrong, asshole." The fire is creeping up on us. All of the water in my body is boiling away. "Dead wrong." I jump up onto the bed, double my momentum and launch myself bodily at him. He lowers his shoulder and blasts me out of the air, shoving me back as I fall and leaping over me. I swing up and drive a foot into his stomach. He drops onto me and takes a swing. I punch it away and go for his stomach with my other arm. He catches it by the wrist and pulls it out of the way, but pulls the other arm across his front and drives his forearm into my throat. Mistake.

I grab his wrist, counting the seconds of blood supply I have left in my brain, wrap my other arm around the one that's choking me and put my hand on his shoulder. Flames are licking the wall of the room. Where is the fire department? I twist his arm with both of mine, restoring my breathing ability, pulling his arm out of the socket and wrenching him off me. I don't release my grip. Instead, I pull myself up and twist it behind him. He screams and I delight. I use his pain as an opportunity. My foot hits the back of his knee and it buckles, then I drive him the rest of the way down to his stomach, kneel on his back and grab his other arm. I pull that one back, too, and twist it up with the other. I lean down next to his ear while holding his arms in as uncomfortable a position as I can maintain. "Guess what, boyo? I _am_ the devil from now on. All of you are going to pay. I know your boy thinks he raised the stakes higher than I can handle. Fuck him. Tell him _he_ made this a war, not me. Tell him he hasn't seen anything yet."

I wrench both of his arms one last time, farther then they seem like they'll go. His upper arms snap in unison. I climb off his back and let him go. For a guy with a severe dislocation and two broken arms, he has little trouble getting to his feet. I watch him run out into the burning hallway, wait a few seconds, then walk out myself. The flames can't touch me. I can't believe I didn't kill him. How in the hell didn't I kill him?

### Chapter 67

The fire trucks are too late to save either house by a mile and a half, and late enough that all of the bodies will look like the fire made them. Very convenient. BJ manages to find his way out of the area pretty quickly. No one seems to notice the wounded man slinking off into the night. I'm looking forward to taking him apart again. Now they've got me sitting in the back of an ambulance with an oxygen tank strapped to my face, probably assuming the black all over me is ash and not my tainted, hateful blood. You can never be too careful.

I try not to think about how good I feel, despite knowing that my parents were burned alive just a short time ago. I try to tell myself it's because I had no relationship with them, that it's been years since I've had any sense of attachment. I try not to think of the heat, and of how easy it would have been to kill BJ and how good it would have felt and how I could smell his panic and feel his heart pound and envision it stopping, going dead forever. I can't let myself think about that. I can't think about this adrenaline high. I didn't kill anyone, I don't kill people. I can't.

I've been so selfish about this. What happened to me? I was going to be a hero, not an emo kid with a vendetta. They're murderers and they make more murderers. I can't let them. BJ was here to kill my family, not the Foley's. He's a monster, the bloodlust ran away with him and he couldn't help but kill them. He can't stop himself. None of them can. I have to stop them. This isn't about my stupid little grudge. Fuck my empty threat to BJ. I had no intentions beyond beating him up again. We're past that. I pull the oxygen mask off my face and throw it on the floor of the ambulance, then get up and start walking to my car. The police can have their statement later; I've got places to be.

A bit of movement catches my eye off to the left, so I turn. There he is, Allen Hartley, staring right the hell at me. I freeze in place. He looks sad, sad or something, as he climbs into a car and slams the door. He knows I saw him. No one seems to notice me slinking off in all the confusion. Why would anyone care about the newest orphan on the block? They probably forgot I was even here. I'm hoping it's not too late to check into a hotel that doesn't charge an hourly rate. I've got to get some sleep; I've got a war to wage in the morning.

### Chapter 68

The Budget Lodge has free wireless internet and a minimal amount of openly visible prostitution. It's also my current place of residence, under an assumed name, of course. I'm getting a lot of mileage out of the Harvey Petranko moniker, and I've convinced myself it's making things a little tougher for my would-be attackers. Right now my whole operation is pretty low-key. TV, laptop, bed, desk, dresser, bathroom, cooler full of alcohol. I've got to keep myself suitably liquored up so I don't realize I've lost my mind.

The way I figure it, they think they can just come and kill me any time if they feel like it. They figure they have numbers, weapons, technology, money, strategy, and experience over me. They figure. I figure I have surprise over them. I've got to start with a bang. Get them nice and intimidated—show them what I can do. Make them rethink going on the offensive against me. I'll make them rethink living in the continental United States.

Pat goes last, that much is easy. He's my grand finale, and he's going to watch me work my way up to him, nice and slowly. It should be more than enough to give him a nice fat heart attack. It seems like the order for the rest of them shouldn't be all that important. But it is. The order is everything. I'm drafting plans in spreadsheets in a code I made up this morning. Yesterday I downloaded an open source encryption program and slapped it on my hard drive on the highest security setting it had. By the time anyone cracked it it would be totally irrelevant. They'd be dead from old age. All of the players move through my scenarios, mostly in my mind but also in a bunch of little text files I've popped open to keep track of my thoughts. Choreographing the motions of other humans, reactions, plans that they'll come up with, it seems even easier than choreographing a beat down.

Every now and then I have to remind myself that they have free will. They can change things. I'm not Batman. He could do this without special super soldier powers. People change what they do, and I'll just change the plan. I'm no robot. I can adapt. I flip through each of my different sets of scenarios, committing each one to memory. I already know where I'm going first, where I'll have the most impact right off the bat. I was surprised he was so easy to find. Hell, I was surprised he even still had an address. I was more surprised to see his new job title.

It doesn't make much sense to me. I guess I'll go get an explanation in person soon enough, though. I sit on my bed, the laptop is on the floor and staring up at me, and I go over my logic in my head one last time. This isn't about a grudge, this isn't about the screaming, and this isn't about the bullet in my stomach. This is about the Foleys and Diego and everyone else on the planet. This is real. This decision has been made.

### Chapter 69

Knock, knock, knock. I stand outside the door to a rather lavish home on a very nice fall day. He takes forty six seconds to open the door, eleven of them are after he arrives and undoes the deadbolt. I certainly hope my reputation hasn't preceded me. It's not time for that yet. Finally, Gil opens the door. He's wearing one of those doctor jackets. A white one with his name embroidered over the pocket. It takes him a second.

"Nate! Holy crap! How the hell are you? Come in!"

His surprise is a lie, as is his enthusiasm. He's known I didn't die for months. He had no intention of ever seeing me again, but that doesn't mean he didn't expect me. I walk in. He motions for me to take a seat. The silence is more awkward for him than for me. I let it linger, and he gives in first. "How the hell have you been, man?"

"Not as good as you." Don't let too much out. Not yet. "I doubt anyone from our unit has. You're a big fancy doctor now? Rolling in the dough. That was a quick turnaround."

"I managed to get a substantial amount of credit towards an internship for my time as a field medic."

"That's great, that you managed to turn things around like that. I wasn't sure it was going to happen for you, man. You didn't really look so much like a doctor the last time I saw you."

Silence. I'm winning. He thinks of something to say eventually, though. "So what brings you all the way down here? Don't you live in Maryland?"

"I have a car."

"That's not what I meant."

"It's fast."

"Nate."

"I came to see my war buddy. I heard he was making a _killing_. I thought a little of your good luck might rub off on me. It's been a rough...long time."

"Nate, I'm really sorry about the way things ended for you."

"Ended? Are you talking about the whole thing where you helped kill me and left me for dead after slaughtering dozens of helpless people? What, exactly, would you say ended then, Gil?"

I'm yelling. I don't want to be yelling. This isn't about me. Why is he so cool? Why is he acting so normal? "Hold on, man. Don't go crazy on me." Not crazy. "I know you had a rough time out there. Rougher than the rest of us for sure, but that's over now. We're home now. It's time for us to get on with our lives."

Who's the crazy one? "The war followed me home, Good Buddy. It killed my parents and my neighbors. It burned down my house."

"Jesus, man. That's awful, but you can't just blame all of your problems on the SSPO, man. You've got to keep touch with reality."

" _I know what happened!_ " Slow down. Keep a cool head, Nate. You have a plan. Don't blow it for a moment of weakness. You're better than that. Don't let him make this personal, even by accident.

"Dude, if you want, I can set you up with a psychiatrist near where you live. You've got to get your head on straight."

"That's not what I'm going to do."

"What, then? You're just going to blame everything bad that happens for the rest of your life on me, Jess, and everyone else?"

"I'm going to kill you all."

It feels great to say it. It makes it seem even less real than it already did. He sits down. He doesn't appear to be sure that he should take me seriously. He's pretty sure he knows me. "Who do you think you're kidding? You can't kill anyone, man. You could barely even fight back. Suddenly you're just going to kill a bunch of highly trained soldiers? _Real_ soldiers?"

"Things change."

"I'm not buying it. If you wanted to kill me, you'd have already tried and I would already be driving you to the hospital."

"I've got a question for you."

That gives him pause. The emotional balance of the conversation has once again shifted in my favor. He's the one trying to keep his cool. "You get one question, then you get the hell out of my house and check yourself into a hospital, man."

"Why aren't you like the rest of them anymore? You snapped just like they all did, yet here you are, coherent and supposedly practicing medicine. The others can barely form a sentence."

"You don't know that."

He's betting I'm bluffing. I'm not. "I do, actually. You're the only one of us who's had an address, or any sort of a credit history, since the day boot camp started. Well, the only one of us who also happens to be a murderer."

He lowers his head. It looks like genuine guilt, but he could be a good liar. "I was just keeping my head down, man. Like I always said I would. What changed was what that entailed."

A very good liar indeed. I rush at him, grab the back of his head and pull him off the couch, throwing him face down hard into the floor at the end of the motion. He's conscious, I can tell by the moan. I hold his face down in the thick carpet while he plants his hands and tries to find the leverage to turn over. He's trying to talk, but he's already had his last words. I figure he's worse than the rest of them. "You knew a different me, Gilly boy. Unfortunately for you, it appears that I knew a different you as well."

Kneeling on his back and holding his face down with one hand, I punch him in the ear a few times, just enough to cut it open. It's my small concession to the part of me that wants to turn this into a multi-day execution with full-on torture session. The screaming and I have to coexist somehow. "I hope you've enjoyed all your ill gotten gains. It's time for you to enjoy your new job as an example. Have fun in hell, old buddy."

I jerk his head up by his hair, shoot a hand in under his chin and snap his neck. I feel a rush as I do it, and at the same time it's not real. I killed a murderer. He killed himself. I stand up, slowly. "That's one." My voice sounds strange, alone in a profound silence. There's only one heart beating in the room, and it's pounding. I could get used to this, but I know I never will. It's time to go home. I walk right out the front door, lock it behind me, get in my car, and drive away. Just like that. Why the hell does everyone live so far away? I snicker, which makes me feel a little crazy. I'm not crazy, though. I'm a hero. Not that anyone will ever know about it.

### Chapter 70

I'm pacing back and forth in my motel room several hours later. Just like before, my heart won't slow down, but now I'm not trying to fight it. I love it. This is so much easier, and it works so much better. I have direction now. I don't have to fight any more. I have to save the world.

Wow. That sounds a whole load of cliché and half a load of crazy, doesn't it? Maybe I'm not saving the world, but I'm cleaning out some of its big problems. Maybe I'll take on drug dealers when I'm done. Maybe the mob, axe murderers, biker gangs, Republicans, money launderers, and the rest of the dregs of society. Or maybe I'll just keep it to corrupt bureaucrats and their minions. This is a mission; it's not a career path.

But why not? I'm good at it so far. I have a unique set of abilities that allows me to accomplish feats that no other rational person can. Just a whole bunch of crazies, but they're hardly in the position I'm in. Maybe I'll take up mixed martial arts when I'm done. Is that cheating? I'm way ahead of myself. I just got through the easiest part, a guy who didn't see me coming, trusted me, and was basically harmless. There hasn't even been any attempt at revenge yet. If they care about Gil enough to try to set things right. Not that they would actually set things right, just kill me. Or try to. I can take their best shot.

I sit down in front of my laptop and look at the rest of my list. The next name I pick has to be a big one. Someone flashy. Someone that'll make the statement "If you think I'm scared, you are sorely mistaken. Prepare to be owned." It's too early to kill Pat, obviously. There's only one move left that makes any sense right now. I am all business about this decision.

The internet, when you're a little savvy and at least a little observant, makes it terribly easy to find people who work in the public sector, even those who work for the armed forces. Especially when these people are purported war heroes. In semi-retirement. Could you make it any easier on me, Frankie? I'm going to enjoy taking you apart. Too bad I don't have enough time to beat the hell out of you for three months straight like you did to me. That would be a good time.

No it wouldn't. It most certainly would not. I do not enjoy killing. I will not enjoy this work, save the satisfaction of knowing what I'm getting rid of. I have to keep myself separate from the others. I'm not a mindless killing machine. I'm a cold, calculating killing machine that knows exactly what he's doing and exactly when to stop. That's the key thing here. I don't enjoy myself, and I have a very, very limited list of targets. I'm going to stop.

### Chapter 71

Frank doesn't live too far away, which is nice. I wouldn't want to have to sue the government again, or collect the insurance for another burned down home with dual fatalities, just to keep the tank full. This car is big, and I really didn't think the fuel economy thing through. That gets me thinking that maybe I should thank Pat for making me rich. Maybe I will, right before I break my fist off on his fat face. Now there's a thought that'll keep me smiling. Kind of makes me wish the ride was longer.

I pull up to Frank's old school looking farmhouse at around eight fifteen. It's not quite dark yet. There's only one car in the driveway, and none in the open garage. His wife died eight years ago and he lives alone. Maybe that's where all his anger comes from. I park on the street, hop out of the car and turn the lights off. He's outside mowing the lawn on a tractor. If he heard the car or saw the lights he probably assumed it belonged to his neighbor. It's an easy, confident walk into the garage, through the door in there, and into laundry room.

He keeps a very clean house. I make sure not to track any dirt, nothing he would notice before he got too close. I'm not entirely sure he wouldn't call the cops, and I'm not prepared for that. Not killing anyone would prove difficult. I can hear from the moment I walk in that he left the TV on. Must have been in some rush to cut that grass. I head into the den and sit down in his chair, a nice, tall, leather recliner with its back to the room entrance. I don't lean back, despite the temptation, so he'll never see me on his way in.

He was watching some stupid hospital show. Everyone is running around whining about how much sex they do or do not want to have with one another. What the hell does this have to do with hospitals? I barely resist the urge to change the channel. He might suspect something if his program isn't waiting for him when he gets back. That'd really crap on the surprise. So I spend forty minutes of my life learning who is cheating on whom with whom, and who knows about it but is pretending that they don't. It's terribly exciting. At least it keeps the rage bubbling. My mind wanders, and I find myself thinking about things other than murder, which is rare these days. It's been a while since I've talked to Chelsea. She left me voicemails. Maybe I'll call her later.

I hear a door close. The garage. Show time.

Frank takes heavy steps; an unconscious deaf person would hear him coming at a thousand yards. He takes off his boots; there's no reason to dirty up his pretty house, or maybe he wants to be able to sneak up on me. There must be some way for him to tell I'm here, no matter how sneaky I am. It's just a matter of how perceptive he is. He walks into the den and stops in the doorway. He's watching the medical crap show. And here I was hoping he was watching whatever was on before it. He doesn't move for several seconds. My willpower breaks down.

"Laura told Gina that she saw Isaac going to town on Ella, and she was pissed off. There was a lot of whining, too. Largely mindless. Nothing to really concern yourself with, I'm sure you could pick the continuity back up next week."

He takes one step back and two to the left, slowly. There's a closet there, presumably with a gun inside. "And who are you, dickwad?"

He slides the closet door open slowly, since it squeaks for longer. I stand up dramatically, still facing away from him. He's not holding the gun yet. "Nathan Werner, at your service. I believe we've met."

He stops moving for the gun. What a cocky prick. "Werner." He steps forward, into the den. "I'd heard you'd been making the rounds lately, being a jackass and embarrassing yourself and the country even more than you already had. Are you here to talk some shit about me, too, boy?" He's getting close, creeping up slowly. "I hope you've got a mighty big gun. Oh. Wait. You don't use guns. Looks like you're just going to have to take your ass kicking the old fashioned way."

He quits his approach just two feet behind me. I don't turn. "Why don't you give me your best shot, for nostalgia's sake?"

He obliges. The old bastard can still hit plenty hard, and my super powers didn't come with invincibility. It's a shot to the back of the kidney and it wobbles me so bad I almost forget to duck the next blow, meant for the side of my head. It was a haymaker that would have caused me some serious problems. Now I turn around, because it's getting to be time to take this guy seriously. He's no Gil, that's for certain.

He's smiling. "Oh, so you think you've got tricks now?"

He takes another swing at my face, starting an uppercut with the other hand a split second later. I spin off to the side, hoping he feels as slow as he looks. He grabs for my shirt as I go by, but it's gone too fast, then hurls himself bodily at me. I sidestep, stick a leg between his legs and trip him into the wall. He hits face first, but pushes himself back up immediately. Good. He spins and brings another haymaker with him, but I'm out of his reach before he has a chance to adjust. Then the big man gets smart, he starts trying to press me, throwing quick jabs with his left hand to negate the speed advantage.

It would help his pride too much if I let him land another shot. I catch both of his wrists, jerk them down and forward and drive a knee into his gut at a speed that must look like lightning compared to how he's moving. I release his wrists and he doesn't come back up quickly enough for my liking, so to straighten him up I put a forearm across his throat and drive him back into the wall, giving him a few rising shots to the diaphragm with my other hand to finish off his air supply. "Things have changed, big man. Your game is over. Nobody else ends up like me, or like them."

He tries to say something. The effort costs him a couple seconds of life. I push just a little harder. "Thanks for making so many killers, Frank. Too bad you won't be around to see me kill the lot of them."

### Chapter 72

Two days have passed. I haven't stopped repeating the sequences of the last two kills in my head. The only two kills. I haven't seen anything in any newspaper, or online, about either death. Not a blip for a promising young doctor or a decorated war hero. Curious. No one has tried to kill me, either. Curiouser. I'm taking a break. Chelsea's coming home for the weekend. She heard about my parents, and this is the first she could get away.

I forgot about my parents. I missed the funeral service. I am the worst son in history of existence, skipping my parent's wake to kill people. I have sixty missed calls; forty-three of them came with voicemails. I listened to Chelsea's. I flip open my phone and call voicemail. Aunt, cousin, Jeff, uncle, neighbor, cousin, Johnny, on down the list. I'm a little surprised Johnny would leave a message. That's not his style. I delete the lot of them. There's nothing worth listening to. I assume I'll talk to some of them eventually, others never again. I step out the front door of my motel room and head down to the front desk. I have been informed that there is some mail for me.

What I pick up is a pile of condolence letters, a few from a law firm about claiming my inheritance and a whopping check for homeowner's insurance. No sign of the life insurance yet, but I'll wait a little longer before I panic. It's not like I'm hurting for cash. Getting the check in my hands marks the first time that I actually feel bad about my parents. They'd barely been a thought for me for years. I thought that would make it easier to deal with. Mostly, it just made it easy to ignore. Suddenly I can't ignore it any more.

The impending catharsis threatens to overcome me as I walk back across the parking lot, but I find myself safely behind the door to my room before I start bawling like a child. The next thing I know, my knees have given out, and I'm face down in the carpet practically drowning in my own waterworks. I reach out, feeling the need to grab something, but there's nothing to hold onto anywhere around. I scream and push myself up, then punch the dresser hard. I hurt my right hand. I don't care. I hit it again, this time the pain shoots up my forearm.

It's red and throbbing. I bet it's broken. "Mother fuckers!" I sound nice and tough, screaming through infant-style sobs. My voice appears to have gone up about an octave and a half in the past few minutes. "You think you can screw with me? You think you got me? I'm Frankenstein's monster on steroids, you scumbag assholes. Do you know who I am? Do you know who I am?" I'm raving like a lunatic and implicating myself in two murders that I actually committed, but I don't give a damn. Nobody around here is going to volunteer anything to the cops about anything. "Was that your best shot? I'm still standing. You can't beat me, you can't kill me, you can't stop me!"

### Chapter 73

The morning and most of the afternoon pass, and I calm down. I spend a good chunk of time rationalizing my parents deaths, both in terms of how much I can be blamed for them and how much I should allow myself to be affected by them. All the thought and the solitude have managed to bring back some of the detached, numb feeling I had before I went to tantrum town. Now it's time to move on with my life in healthy, productive ways. It's going to be a few days before my hand stops hurting enough to resume my life of crime, so I'm distracting myself by pretending the other part of my life, the social part, still exists. I invited Chelsea over to my place. I'm not going to her parents' house. I can't think of many things that would be closer to impossible to bear.

She gets here fifteen minutes later than she said she would, which is fine with me other than the heart pounding it causes in the intervening time. No idea why I'm so nervous about seeing my friend. I'm nervous about everything lately. She knocks on the door, I check out the peephole to make sure she isn't a government spy, then let her in.

"At least you're better about answering the door than the phone."

I usher her in, and feel very awkward doing it. It's not very often you see someone you like for the first time since becoming a killer. "I'll have you know I'm deep in the grieving process. I don't have time for phone calls these days."

She put a hand on my face and makes a "tsk" sound with her tongue. She looks genuinely sympathetic. "Poor baby." She removes her hand; I turn and close the door. Her face reddens for a second and her eyes shoot down to her hands. "Sorry." She clears her throat. "I hear you missed the funeral."

"My suit was still wet."

"Quick with a joke even when you're in mourning I see."

"One, it probably still was wet at that point, two, of course, I'm a brave little trooper."

"And modest, too."

"It's a gift."

There's a knock on the door. Well, more of a pound, actually. I love when the government interrupts my witty repartee for assassination attempts. It's totally rude, but in a fun and productive way. Of course, they've chosen the one moment in my entire life that I'm actually _entertaining_ to execute me. I turn and look out the peephole, holding one hand out as if to silence Chelsea. It's Jeff outside, not a covert kill squad, but somehow I'm not relieved. He looks ready to throw a fit because I never called him back. Oh, jubilation. I start opening the door slowly, and he shoves his shoulder into it, pushing me back into the corner behind the door as he rushes into the room. "What the hell?"

Chelsea rolls her eyes, indignant that he's clearly yelling and her. She's yelling at him while I'm shoving the door off of me and figuring out what the hell is going on. "Seriously? You followed me here? He needed someone to talk to. I'm not going to blow off my _friend_ because of your paranoid delusions!"

He stretches his neck out like he's trying to get a view of the situation from above. It's a little tick he always goes through when he's getting pissed off. "In his cheap motel room with a fake name? What are you trying to hide from, exactly? You lying whore...."

I step into the fray. "And you think what, that we're hooking up in here? That's why I opened up the door when you knocked? Because I'm having a secret affair with your girlfriend and I wanted you to know. That's just the kind of guy I am."

Jeff's face is getting pale, like he's lost the ability to recognize sarcasm. He looks like he's going to be sick or cry or kill someone. "Why do you do this to me?"

Chelsea steps up, a little bit past me. "We would never do anything to hurt you, Jeff. You know that. We...."

He turns around, away from both of us. "We? See, that's all I need to hear right there. That word is so easy for you to say. Fuck you both. I've been nothing but good to both of you, you pieces of shit. True blue. That's always been...."

He sounds a little like he's crying. Chelsea reaches out, slowly putting a hand on his shoulder. He's guilted her into sympathy in record time. He spins around on contact, taking me by surprise. I can see it happening before it does, but suddenly I'm as slow as molasses. I can't block it. He backhands her across the face hard, hard enough to knock her off balance. My mind shuts off, and I'm not slow any more. I catch him by the wrist he just swung, twist it ninety degrees, jerk him towards me and lock one arm over his shoulder, the other across his neck. He goes rigid. I'm squeezing.

Chelsea's screaming at me: "Nate Nate Nate Nate Nate Nate–Stop! Stop it! Leave him alone!" through tears and the blood smeared across her face.

It's like she's talking to me underwater across an impossibly long swimming pool. I'm drowning. Time doesn't exist. I'm squeezing hard; Jeff is thrashing, he's strong but he's too panicked to cause me any real concern. I feel my shoulders tense for the twist, the snap. Chelsea's screaming louder and closer. She's hitting me. Why is she hitting me? What am I...?

I let Jeff go. He coughs, turns and backpedals, still ready to fight me while he's catching his air. The only sound in the world is Chelsea crying. She falls on the floor. I look at her and Jeff takes a swing. He's an order of magnitude too slow. My head dodges on its own and I press forward. I catch his chin with my right palm, grip his face and jerk his head up and back, bashing it into the door. I let go and his knee buckles. He falls into a crouch. It takes all of my will not to press, not to kick him in the face and finish things off. He's my friend, even if he's the biggest bastard in the world. He's not one of them and I'm not one of them. This is not what I do. He's not one of them.

I reach over him and open the door.

### Chapter 74

Jeff leaves before he ever recovers. There's nothing to say. We're done. We've been done for years. Somehow, I feel like I cheated. Like we were always meant to have some big, epic confrontation to finally end things, but I'm not who I was before. It wasn't fair to him. We'll never know who the better man was. It never should have been that easy. I sit down on the bed, slowly. Chelsea is still on the floor. She's still crying, but it's quiet crying now, and that's so much worse.

I stare at her wordlessly. She won't look at my face, just the floor in front of me. It's probably best that way. She wouldn't recognize me now. I'm not sure, but I might be crying. I breathe deeply, slowly. I don't let my voice crack. "Chelsea, I...I was trying to help you."

She looks even farther from me. "What's wrong with you? You go from doing nothing to almost killing him."

I'm angry. I shouldn't be angry. Just breathe, breathe, breathe and don't yell. There's nothing to be angry about. "That wasn't better than doing nothing? He hit you! I hit him back."

"That was worse, Nate. That was much worse."

I'm angry and I'm not fighting it any more. I'm frustrated. I want to hit her harder than Jeff did, but I know that won't happen. This has been a bad day. I stand up. "God damn it. You'd rather he keep hurting you than get what he's got coming to him? _Part_ of what he's got coming to him?"

"Nobody deserves that. You can't just...."

"You don't deserve that, but I can't say that much for him. He's been a dick to all of us for years, you worst of all. He's lucky he didn't get worse. He deserves worse. Why can't you see that?"

"What did he ever do to you?"

She catches me off guard. My mind isn't clear enough for this. He made fun of me. Punched my car. Threatened to beat me up. Beat me in bokken fights. Hit you. I don't know. I can't think of a good enough answer. "Isn't what he's done to you enough?"

"If it isn't enough for me, why the hell should it be enough for you?"

"I'm sick of watching you be his doormat-punching bag combo. He's a bad guy, Chelsea. Nice guys don't punch their girlfriends."

"Nice guys don't choke their best friends, either."

"Sometimes nice guys don't have a choice and they have to break character."

"Or they tell themselves that so they don't have to feel guilty when they do horrible things. Maybe they stop being nice guys, but they don't want to admit it to themselves."

My fist finds its way into the wall. Cheap motel drywall offers little resistance. I barely have the presence of mind to wonder why I can't hear more from the adjoining rooms. "You have no idea what you're talking about." I'm not yelling now. My head is screaming, but my voice is deadly calm. "I'm helping, I'm the good guy." I rip my hand out of the wall. A chunk of sheet rock follows it and falls to the ground. "I do what you can't do, and I get my hands dirty, but it's all to protect you. Don't you dare try to make me feel guilty. You don't know anything."

She gets up. She's fighting not to cry, I didn't know that she stopped. I think I'm crying now. She looks at me. I beg her to understand without saying a word, but I know she's not having it. "I don't know what happened to you."

She heads towards the door. I make a move towards her and she flinches, like she expects me to hit her. "Please, everything is so much more complicated, I just, I'm not crazy. Please stay. I need your help."

She grabs the doorknob, even though the door is already open. "I can't be here now."

Opening the door, she steps out and closes it. My heart stops pounding almost immediately. This isn't right. I'm the good guy, I swear it. Somebody has to pay. I swear I'm not crazy.

### Chapter 75

I need something, and I need it now. The screaming and I agree about that much. A nice, big, fat kill. I close my laptop, glance over at the hole I made in the wall, grab my keys and go. I don't have any time to dawdle. Not with the screaming this loud. Not with my heart beating this hard. Not today.

I'm saving the day. I'm stopping the bad guys. This has nothing to do with Jeff and how badly I wanted to choke him out, or my parents and how badly I want to avenge them or Pat and how badly...it's not about personal grudges of any kind. I am the righteous blade and I'm going to strike my enemies down. I will not enjoy it. I want it so bad, but I don't want it. I don't care. I can't care. But I'm not cold, not unthinking. I'm calculating. I'm always calculating, planning.

I'm in the car and I'm driving. If I'm planning so well, why am I doing this now? It's too early. I'm going against the plan. I'm screwing everything up. If I don't care, why am I doing this now? Why don't I just stop? I'm driving too fast. I'm going to get a speeding ticket. I'm going to get stopped by a cop and I'm not in control and I'm going to get pissed off and I won't be able to stop it and I'm going to beat the hell out of him and handcuff him to his own exhaust pipe and take his gun and drive away. Laughing.

No. I won't do that at all. What the hell is wrong with me? I can control this. I have a direction. I have a purpose. I am in control. What happens when the purpose is gone? I slow down. I am the good guy. I am sane. I am adjusting the plan in a rational manner. I will think up the rationale later, when I am more rational. I am not screwing anything up. Not at all. I don't need anyone's approval to do this. No one would approve. No one knows what's going on, and no one's going to know.

The drive is long and I'm alone with my thoughts. My thoughts are a lot of company. I go in circles in my head but not on the road. It's always a direct route on the road. My thoughts drown out the radio; even drown out the pounding of my heart. I pull into the driveway of a ranch in the middle of a field as the day officially becomes a night. There's a fifteen year old SUV parked in it that looks like it's actually been off-road recently. I block it in. The car turns itself off, and the keys find their way into my pocket while the car door opens and my feet carry me out without my permission.

### Chapter 76

I walk straight up to the front door and I ring the bell. It's not too late at night for a visitor to drop by unannounced, and this day has been bad enough to convince me to disregard stealth entirely. Stealth is too much work. There's no one around, anyways. No one answers for a full minute, but I can hear movement through the door. I ring again, holding the button down obnoxiously long this time. No one answers still. I know someone is standing there, right by the door. I hate it when they make me wait, especially when I hate them.

I take a step back and kick-stomp the door right next to the lock. The door-jamb gives way to the steel bolt in one shot. I smile and swing the door open, then go deaf and blind for an instant. There's a familiar, warm sensation in my chest and the smell of smoke. My eyes adjust quickly, the rest of me not so much. The gun in Jess's hand is still smoking, and she's staring at me. She looks more nervous than afraid. I look down. The bullet is lodged in my sternum. The end of it is sticking out of the skin, black blood is running all over it, slicking my shirt down tight against my chest. I can feel her staring at me, but I can't feel any pain. I should be dying.

I reach into my own chest and wrench the bullet from the bone. It hurts. It flattened out inside me. Pancaked. I fling it off into her house somewhere. She hasn't moved, and I don't think she will. She'd better not shoot me again. Why the hell isn't she shooting me again? She needs to shoot me again. I reach over slowly, carefully, and pluck the gun from her hands. It's warm, like my chest, the same gun that shot me the first time. I hate this gun. I snap the trigger off with my thumb, then drop it straight down to the ground. It slides a little on the accumulating blood. That's my blood. I look into Jess's eyes. She's started to actually look scared. She knows what I am. The blood pouring out of me is too dark to keep it a secret. " _Stop. Shooting. Me. Bitch."_

I'm getting lightheaded. This isn't right. I can't die now. It isn't even that bad. The bone stopped it, doesn't my body know that? I grab a bunch of my shirt, pull it up and press it tight against the hole in my chest. So unbelievably stupid. No discreet hospital to hook me up this time. I have to handle things myself. I turn and walk back to my car. I feel like I'm lumbering, slowly and clumsily. I'm still losing blood. I press harder. Flopping down in the driver's seat, I take off my t-shirt and tie it tight around my chest. Shove some unused napkins in over the wound and under the shirt, grab a dirty shirt from the back seat and throw it on as quickly as possible. I hope I don't look too conspicuous. She's still standing in the doorway, watching me, and not calling the cops. She was just waiting for a chance to shoot me again. I'm so stupid.

### Chapter 77

I pull into the parking lot of some drug store at the end of a strip mall, still feeling relatively coherent. That's a victory. It's a victory that I found a business at all in this state. I stop the car and park, then haul my several ton body up out of it with a groan. I lumber through the automatic doors and stop in the little alcove beyond. They have tiny carts, like for children or something. I'm half amused. I take one. Luckily for me, I got an A- in health class in high school. The better part of a decade ago.

I head to the back of the store, to the coolers. Lesson one in survival 101, blood is made of water. You need more water to make more blood. Nothing big enough refrigerated, but I'm not picky so I turn around to look at the normal shelves and grab a gallon of the good stuff. Lesson two: alcohol is an excellent pain killer. I grab three forties of the cheapest malt liquor in the cooler. That concludes that.

Lesson three: stitches close big cuts faster. I have a big cut, so I cross the store, grabbing a little needle-and-thread starter kit on the way. I stop in the first aid section. Lesson four: pressure stops bleeding. I grab a roll of bandages and those adhesive things that suck to pull off. I'm doing so much better with my second bullet wound than my first. I guess you learn with experience, and access to civilization helps. I head up to the register. While piling my things onto the counter, I make up a lesson five. The body needs two things to repair itself: protein and energy. I buy a pack of dry roasted peanuts and a bag of those flavored sugar death sticks.

Forty-two eighty. I've got plenty of cash in my wallet. It seems like a paltry price for survival. I'm back in the car faster than I could have anticipated, and driving around to the big chunk of parking lot behind the strip mall that no one ever seems to use except maybe supply trucks and drug dealers. I park, pull the sewing kit out of the bag, and spend about four hours threading the needle, which I take as a good sign for my continued use of my hands.

The thing about giving yourself stitches that they don't seem to ever really emphasize in like movies and stuff is how hard it is to do. It feels damn near impossible to work up the will power required to shove that needle through your skin. And your skin is tough. It fights back. And you have to do it over and over. Especially if you don't knot the end well enough and it pulls through and you have to start over when you've already done four stitches. And you have to sew it tight or there's no point, with tiny stitches so it doesn't rip your skin to shreds and make the problem worse. And it hurts like you wouldn't believe. You'd think you wouldn't notice with a bullet wound in your chest, but you do. I officially hate it by the time I finish. It's the worst thing ever.

I put my shirt back on, crack open the first forty and the bag of nuts and start consuming like there's no tomorrow. I'm still not entirely convinced that there is one. It's not until I'm about thirty ounces in that I remember to bandage myself up, and realize I should have started drinking before the stitches. It's hard to keep track of these things, what with all the pain involved and everything. It takes well into the wee hours of the night to finish off the sugar and booze, plus the water, and I drift off into a comfortable pass out in the back seat right around the third time the radio plays Hotel California.

### Chapter 78

I wake up needing to pee worse than anyone ever has needed to do anything in their lives in the history of the universe. I make it four steps out of the car before giving up and peeing on the curb. I have the worst hangover of all time and my chest feels like I stapled it back together and bathed in lemon juice, then shot myself again. Today the sun is shining, which I am interpreting as a personal attack. Still, this all seems somehow better than yesterday.

I climb back into the car, start it up, thank a deity whose name I can't remember that the battery didn't die from playing Hotel California eighty seven times, and whip around the side of the place to the discount superstore thing at the other end. I need something to wear that doesn't have so much blood or sweat on it. For legal reasons. I haul ass inside much slower than people usually intend to move when they use the term "haul ass" and head straight to the back, to the men's sale clothes. I grab a pair of brown pants in approximately my size. It's a little chilly, so I grab this brown sport coat thing. I finish off the whole ensemble with a generic black t-shirt and head to the cash register.

My phone rings. I ignore it. At the register I make a quick decision and finish off my shopping in earnest with a pack of big, nasty, fat cigarettes. I can't remember the last time I had one. They look so awful that I can't help myself. I pay with the last of my wallet contents, cash, then change in the bathroom. The bloody stuff I throw in the bag, the rest I leave on the floor to rot.

I head outside, get attacked by the ever-vicious sun, and ride a trail of cigarette smoke to a diner across the parking lot. Once I'm inside I've got a table all to myself, at which I plan to consume eggs, toast, potatoes and my volume in coffee. I check my voicemail after ordering. One message, from when I was in the store. The Budget Lodge. Lots of noise complaints yesterday. Cleaning service went in today and reported the hole I put in the wall. One of those things apparently counted as two strikes. I'm evicted. I can feel free to pick up my stuff in the office when I pay my bill in full. They'll hold it for forty eight hours. How considerate of them.

I find myself the opposite of upset. Hopefully they've called all the other motels in town and told them to put me on the "do not bed" list. I drain six ounces of coffee in one swallow and it burns all the way down. It's about time I blew some of my blood money on a decent apartment. It'll give me a little time to heal. The phone rings again while it sits on the table right next to my swollen, battered hand.

### Chapter 79

I sit there for a minute just staring at my phone. It's a blocked ID, ringing with that secondary ringer that came with the phone that I never bothered to change because I never thought about hearing it. There's something about the sound that reminds me of a sixties horror movie, but maybe I'm just still drunk. The waitress arrives with my pile of grease around ring number five, and I finally get around to picking the damn phone up. "Hello? Moe's Tavern?"

It's the first time I've actually answered the phone in probably my whole life, and no one responds to me. At first I think maybe the line is dead, then after a second of hearing nothing I can't smell my eggs and more and my left eye is twitching uncontrollably, and suddenly my coat is too hot and I'm sweating and shifting in my seat and my stomach is turning and my hangover has doubled in size. The lights in the diner are blinding me as the room spins and I finally pick up on the distant, quiet, super high pitched tone on the line. Everything goes black right as I'm finally sure I can hear it.

...

My eyes open again, and I have this panicked feeling like I just laid down for a nap during the day and woke up at night. And I'm sitting on a wet sidewalk and propped up against the side of a brick building, a light rain hitting my face. It's already almost soaked my hair and clothes; I've been sitting here for a while. It's already getting dark when it should be morning and I'm a hundred times more starving that I was a minute ago. The voices in my head are screaming so hard some of them sound like they're weeping, begging me for the blood of no one in particular.

I don't need a mirror to know what I look like. The wound in my chest feels like it must have ripped open at least a couple times while I was out, I'm sure I'd see blood on my shirt if it wasn't black and drenched in rain. Trying to get up, I nearly fall on my face, my legs absolutely refusing to follow orders, like I've spent the day doing squat thrusts and I've got nothing left in them. Something is horribly, terrifyingly, inconceivably wrong. The voices know, but I can't ask them questions, I can't even listen to them for fear that they'll take over. There's a picture in my head of someone, a man I don't know, and he looks like he's crying. Bleeding. I shove the pictures away, my energy can't be wasted on that right now. Bracing myself against the wall and using both hands for leverage, I get my footing and fight the urge to throw up the nothing that's in my stomach as I make it all the way up to my feet. I have to be careful not to look too much like a junkie or the cops will pick me up and start asking some questions I really can't answer.

Every step is a battle, but I eventually get myself out of the alley and to the corner of the street. Things only get worse when I see the signs. I'm a long way from a home I'm not even welcome back to, my mind a total, deafening, screaming blank. I'm barely capable of locomotion, heart pounding and veins burning, and there's no one I can ask for help. My car keys are still in my pocket, and somehow my phone got back in there too. There's a poorly parked monstrosity of a car ten or twelve blocks down the street that could be mine, I can't tell in the rain with my head so clouded and my body so broken. I trudge on hoping it belongs to me, and planning to drop dead in the gutter if it doesn't.

### Chapter 80

It _is_ my car. I get in it, and I get some fast food, and eat it, and throw it all up again, and fall asleep in the front seat in a parking lot behind a store for the second night, hopefully in a row but I'm still not sure. When I wake up I'm still hung over and half dead, and I eat more fast food and throw it all up again. I need to brush my teeth more than I've needed anything in my life. Now I've got the sum total of my possessions in my trunk again, plus a newspaper, today's edition, complete with classified ads, complements of the Budget Lodge. Maybe they felt bad for kicking out the war hero and had to give him fifty cents of compensation. I can tell they went through my stuff, and I know they saw the medals. I should probably get those mounted or something. It's funny how no one asks how a guy so young can be a war hero when there's no war in which to be heroic. People don't think about things. I still think I should have gotten the silver star. Cheapskates.

My body is still a crumpled, blood crusted mess under my clothes, I'm sweaty and I can't keep any food down, but I'm sitting on the hood of my car in the parking lot, with a fruit-flavored microbrew that was totally not worth the price difference in my hand. I'm telling myself that even now I must still be hung over, that I was more drunk than I thought, that I didn't get a phone call that made me black out. That I didn't lose a whole day, even though the paper says it's Monday. The front page of the paper is talking about some free trade summit that has to be put on hold. A Chilean ambassador who was supposed to meet with the President has gone missing. My stomach turns, so I turn the page and leaf through the apartments for rent. It's littered with studios and unfurnished numbers. With prices so low the walls must be as thin as paper. That's bad for staying inconspicuous; you never know when you'll break into a loud, cathartic hissy-fit or get in a fight to the death in your very own home. I have to chuckle at my own melodrama. I never thought I'd turn into such an emo kid.

I hit the more expensive apartments and start to find some things with some potential. Big bedrooms, high ceilings, upper floors of buildings, that sort of thing. I figure, at the rent these places are charging, I'll need to think about getting a job in the next ten years. I think I can live with that. I pick one at random, dial the number, and a woman picks up after three rings. "Westbrook Towers, this is Charlene, how can I help you?"

"I'm calling about the one bedroom apartment in today's paper. Is that currently vacant?"

"One second..." she pauses for several seconds. I hear no mouse or keyboard action, and I'm not on hold. She's not looking anything up. "Yes, sir, the previous occupant moved out last week. Were you interested in seeing the unit?"

"Probably. That is, if unit means apartment. Do you have space for me today?"

"One moment please." No clicks, no clacks. She's got plenty of space. Tricky girl. "I believe we can accommodate something."

"I'll be over in twenty six minutes. Make sure the place is nice and tidy. I don't do messy apartments."

"I assure you, the unit has been fully...."

I hang up mid-sales pitch. I can't let her think that she's selling me. For some reason I hate the idea of feeding someone's self esteem falsely. I hop off the hood, regret the move immediately, give myself a second to make sure I'm not going to throw up again, and climb into the driver's seat to do my best to make my completely random time prediction accurate.

### Chapter 81

Charlene is fairly nice looking girl, about thirty-six, but she thinks she looks twenty-three. She walks like a dancer–the tutu kind rather than the pole kind–but what do I know? I'm apparently a little pent up. I did not know that. I try to push it out of my mind as she leads me up the elevator to the sixth floor and sticks a key in the door of apartment 606. She turns it, and I put my hand on the door, flirting just the tiniest bit. I guess. "I'm going to go in and close the door behind me first. I want you to yell when I do."

"Sir...?"

"Sound proofing is very important to me; I don't want to hear anything from my neighbors. If the walls here are high quality, you should have nothing to worry about." I barely let her nod before I open the door and step in. The only thing I notice right away is the white-grey walls. It's a little depressing. After I close the door, there's a seriously muted yell in the hall. From the tone I can gather that it's actually meant to be loud. I appreciate the honest effort while opening the door back up.

Charlene walks in and immediately goes into tour mode, like I'm a total stranger, and tells me all about the crown molding and chair rails, the low-e glass that's better in summer _and_ winter, the exact dimensions of each of the rooms, the nonfunctioning fireplace, water quality of the building, all the way into recommendations for TV placements based on the angles light enters the main room. I guess she knows a lot about glares. Her efforts are largely ignored. I let the tour go on for about twenty five minutes before my legs start to get wobbly and I have to interrupt. "I'll take it. You draw up the lease; I'll go get my stuff."

She looks confused or surprised. "I'm glad to hear it. We can go over the specifics downstairs. When would you like to move in?"

"Within the hour. I'll see you in the office in ten minutes."

### Chapter 82

I have no furniture, just a suitcase, computer, and blanket on the floor. I'll have to get to that tomorrow. I'm going to need a truck to get everything I need. Or delivery. I'm pretty lucky I chose a place with an elevator in my basically random decision. It was stupid not to consider that when looking at a sixth floor apartment. Better to be lucky than smart, I guess. Maybe I should hire someone else to pick all my furniture. I think rich people do that.

Today I will sleep on the floor, surf the internet, and rest. I have some major healing to do before I resume my quest. I can't get shot again, at least until I cut out my stitches. But I'm bored. There's nothing to do in an empty apartment and I don't want to think right now. I grab my cell phone and it makes my stomach turn just to hold the damn thing. I flip it open anyways, and the second number in the call history makes me stop. She doesn't want to talk to me. But time heals all wounds, and a couple days count as time. I hit send and get voicemail. I don't know what to say to a mail box. "Please don't hate me. I couldn't think the other day. It was a bad, bad day. I got my comeuppance, though. I got at least as much as I deserved, and probably enough for the next time I screw up big. I think I'm ready to talk to you about some pretty important things.

"You'll probably hate me. More than you even do now. But it's important. Please call me before I change my mind. I can't be the only one who knows. It'll kill me. I need to talk to you. I'm sounding too desperate. I don't think I'm that desperate. It's just important. I'm sorry. Call me back."

I hang up the phone and wonder if it's possible to delete your own voicemail from someone else's inbox. There's no way that I know of. My stomach feels hollow. I've pretty much got no one left. No one but Johnny P. I totally forgot about Johnny, and that means I'm a terrible friend. I dial him up anyways, because I don't have anything better to do, but it goes straight to voicemail. I deserve that. Leaving a message for him is a little easier.

"Johnicus! I demand that you show up at my new apartment with hydro tonight! I will have at least some measure of food and video games, perhaps also a chair. It's Westbrook Towers, apartment 606. Just give me a call when you get here and I'll buzz you up."

I exit via the only door I have in search of life's necessities.

### Chapter 83

Johnny arrives around ten o'clock without ever calling to let me know he's coming. It's just late enough for me to have given up on seeing him at all, but not late enough for me to have gotten any real sleep. He rings the bell and I buzz him up. I enjoy having the power of a buzzer. I have two comfortable chairs now, plus a little table. Salvation Army for the win. Blankets and pillows came next. I didn't have the strength to buy a bed yet. Though I may have purchased a rather large, rather high definition television, plus a gaming console and several games involving shooting, beating up, or robbing people, or some combination thereof.

I'm not desensitized. I promise.

When Johnny finally gets in, he looks like hell. I'd never seen him unshaven before. Now I see why. His hair's all tangled, beard is all patchy, and his skin is almost a pale as mine. His shirt's got a big stain on the front. It's either from blood, chocolate, or ketchup. "Hey, man. What's going on?"

Even his voice sounds defeated, like somewhere along the way somebody kicked the life out of him. I'm not sure how best to sympathize. I'm pretty sure I could go bummer-to-bummer without thinking to hard. "Not a whole lot. The world is a terrible place."

"What are you gonna do?"

"Nothing you can do." I never really thought about how dismal that little exchange, that we used to go through at least weekly, really was. It seems much more fitting now than it did in high school. "Need a beer?"

"Seven."

I head over to the fridge and get two of the cheapish beers I picked up today. He is most grateful for his. He returns the favor by withdrawing a joint from his front pocket. I am most grateful. The next hour and a half are a blur of substance abuse. We both beat our minds into submission like we've got a real grudge against them. It's just like old times, but the problems are real. Then we give each other a few 3-D beat downs in a digital world. It's not very satisfying. After one last round, which I win by a sliver, I throw the controller down. It bounces off the hardwood, louder than I would have liked. Johnny puts his controller down and looks at me. I shrug. "Not really having fun."

He nods. He has a look on his face like he could crack in half at any moment. "Need to smoke some more?"

I've never really had the relationship with Johnny where we would have, like, these deep heart-to-heart discussions or anything. I don't know if it was like a trust thing, or just that we never had the necessity to, then we got used to things being that way, but I like to think I can talk to him about anything. If I can just bring myself to break the ice. We've been friends since we were eleven, after all. I'm not getting anywhere with it, though, just sitting there awkwardly in silence and thinking myself in circles.

He passes me the lit joint, then totally blindsides me. "I'm schizophrenic, man. I'm losing my mind."

I shake my head slowly. "No, I don't think so. You're just going through a rough patch...."

He shakes his head, faster than I did. "No, I mean like I actually am. You've been gone for a while. I've been in and out of the hospital, sometimes for a week or more. They've got me so messed up on drugs that I can barely even get high any more. Or tell if I am high."

I puff the joint. I feel bad about doing it, but at the same time I feel bad about not doing it. "Holy crap, man, I had no idea. How'd, uh, how'd you find out?"

"It's a thing in my family. My mom lost it when I was a little kid. Aunts and uncles, cousins, everybody. It's the worst thing in the world, not knowing if you can trust anything you think, and knowing someday you won't be able to."

"I know exactly what you mean." I pass the joint back over. He takes it tentatively.

"No, you don't. I don't even know how bad...."

I don't interrupt him, just pull my shirt way up, then tear off the dressing I put over my bullet wound. He stops talking. I can't decide if I'm sympathizing or being some attention hog. "I got shot yesterday, or the day before, and I deserved it. I was going to beat this girl to death for shooting me, and she shot me again."

"She shot you twice? There's only one hole."

I tap on my already scarred over bullet wound, lower and on my left side. "She's the one who shot me in the army. I went to her house to kill her." He doesn't say anything. "She wasn't the first." I drop my shirt. He passes me the joint, more out of instinct that a conscious desire to continue smoking, I'd say.

"That shot you?"

"That I killed."

The crickets chirp. He's looking around. It's awkward. "I'm not screwing with you. These people are bad people. Murderers who plan to murder again. There are still more out there. They tried to make me one of them, then they tried to kill me. They killed my parents."

"But you can't just kill people, like, the cops or something could...."

"This is way outside what the cops do. These people have bent the laws to protect them. They kill civilians. Families. People that are sleeping, unarmed and helpless. They, I don't know how to say it."

Johnny shifts around uncomfortably. He's still not talking as much as I'd like him to. I need him to understand. "They make killers. Stone cold, mindless, unstoppable killers out of _people_. They tried to make me into one and they screwed it up real bad. But they got at least a chunk of their crazy programming into my mind, and it makes me want to just go nuts and freaking kill everyone I see. It's all I can do to stop them from making more like me, or more like them."

"By killing them all?"

"Trust me; it's the only way to keep the body count down. They want to start a war. I want to end one. Can...if I need you, can I trust you?"

He thinks for just long enough to make me regret telling him. I'm sure he's going to call the cops the second he walks out of the apartment. Perhaps waiting for Chelsea would have been the wiser choice. Her reaction would have been livelier, at least. "What the hell, right? I'm going crazy anyways. Your craziness is just as valid as mine is, I guess." He leaves a dramatic pause there. "Are you ever gonna pass the joint?"

### Chapter 84

When I woke up this morning, Johnny was gone. He must have taken off while I was passed out. I climb up off the hard floor, my chest throbbing, my hand so stiff I think the bones have fused, and head over to the window. The sun in high in the air. It's late. I slept for a long time. Good. You heal when you sleep. Maybe I'm all better now. Other than all the parts that still hurt.

I'm ready for the day in a matter of minutes, despite the thick layer of grime coating me. It's shopping day. I'm not sleeping on the floor again. I grab one of those preservative-laden bagels from the grocery store that never get hard and demolish it without so much as splitting it in half along the precut seam, and head straight out the door. I'm in a hurry. My public awaits.

My giant beast of a car takes me to a giant beast of an upscale furniture store. If they work on commission here, I am about to become somebody's best friend. I still have some capacity for making people happy, at least. I suppose it comes with all the money. Apparently the cliché fails to take into account how much happiness money can buy others. I've resolved to cover as little ground in the store as possible while still finding all of the main furniture things a person is expected to have in his apartment if he's not a serial killer. That way when the police inevitably come to question me I at least won't _look_ like I live like the crazy person that I am.

Within an hour I have chosen a bedroom set (a bed, mattress, dresser, nightstand, and little thing that goes at the foot of the bed that you're supposed to fill with blankets and junk), a couch, a dining set, and an entertainment center, even though flat TVs have totally rendered the traditional entertainment center obsolete. The guy helping me has offered to show me about fifty billion other things that I have no use for, but I have my limits. I head up to the counter, pay with a credit card that gave me a much higher limit than my current fiscal maturity level merits, and set up same day delivery and all that good stuff. I'm not carrying a damn thing by myself.

Before heading to another store to spend obscene amounts of money on food, booze, and electronics, I head to the bathroom. I swing the door open, step inside and see a fat, dimpled, bearded face dead ahead. My heart lurches forward and I stop dead in my tracks. This most certainly was not in the plan.

### Chapter 85

He doesn't look over at me. Why should he? You never look at other people in the public restroom if you can help it. It would be weird to. He's certainly taking his time to pee. Maybe he has an enlarged prostate and he's about to drop dead from it somehow. I glance down the row of stalls. No feet. Smiling, I turn and latch the door shut behind me. The click is enough to draw his attention, then my face is enough to keep it. My heart is pounding. I'm afraid of him. The thought hits me like a wrecking ball. I have all the power here, yet I'm the one that's afraid. There's no justice.

"Hello, Mr. Werner. How wonderful to see you again." Low and slow. It makes me want to shove his jawbone out the back of his neck. He zips up and sticks a hand in his pocket.

"Yeah. You and me, we're the best of friends. Us and Frank. And Gil. You're pretty tight with those two, right?"

"I don't believe I know to whom you're referring."

"So this time you play dumb? I suppose it's easier for you that way. Losing money gets you all red in the face, gets you to go after a man's family in the night, but the threat of physical harm just bounces right off your fat hide?"

"That question would only be pertinent if there were a true threat of violence. But you, young man, are harmless."

My lips twist themselves into a sneer. The cocky, patronizing bastard either believes what he says or he's a damn good liar. "You really think you're in control right now? Your ego knows no limit, does it? You crazy, senile old fat man...."

There's this tiny, super high pitched tone coming from somewhere. Coming from him, and suddenly I'm sweating and he seems to know it. "You are doing exactly what you were built to do. You have targets in your mind that I _want_ there. You do as I say and little else. The illusion of free will is a powerful tool. Your existence is an experiment and nothing more, young man. How much humanity can a weapon maintain and still be an effective weapon?"

I cough. I don't know where it comes from. I'm trying to figure out if the fat man had the speech practiced or if it was all off the cuff. My head is spinning. I want to kill him and I want to run and hide and curl up in a corner and die and kill him again. "Your lies don't work on me, fat man. I can tell you're running scared. You've got no card left that trumps mine. Nothing that even comes close. I'm the ace of spades."

"Why worry about trumping your own hand?" Fucking shit-head asshole piggy-backing on my metaphor. "But, as I said before, the more humanity a _weapon_ is allowed to retain, the less effective it will be. I wonder how effective you could make someone if you stripped him of all of his humanity."

I hate him so much I can feel it leeching out of my pores. He's slower than I thought, though. Knowing something he doesn't makes me feel a little better. "I already dropped one of your zombie drones, buddy. Next question."

"Oh yes, you did, didn't you? Curious." He sounds more and more like he's talking to a retarded child with every word. It takes every shred of willpower I have to keep me from tearing out his jugular with my teeth. I think. "You'll soon learn just how futile your revolution really is. Incidentally, I hear they found the Chilean Ambassador this morning." He takes a slow step towards me, my stomach is turning and he's got this stupid, fat, coy idiot smile on his face. "Dreadful business, that. They say it was a mugging gone wrong. I don't imagine that will do much to help our diplomatic standing with our friends to the south."

There's a twist of images in my brain that I can't think about. I shove them down as far as they'll go. "I don't give a damn about your stupid Ambassador. Stop trying to confuse things, Pat."

"No? Oh, that's right, you're too busy having free will to worry about that war that's just over the horizon. If you'll excuse me, I've got to go work on guaranteeing our victory. Or you could dismember me as I walk out the door. I assure you, I am unarmed."

He walks by me slowly, unlatches the door and takes his sweet time making an exit. I find myself doing nothing. I think that's my decision. I'm sticking to the plan. Changing it got me shot last time. I stand there doing nothing for a few minutes while my heart dies down and my skin stops boiling, and almost forget to go to the bathroom.

### Chapter 86

I bought more stuff. Don't remember what now. Anxious. Pacing back and forth. Furniture being delivered, placed wherever the hell will get the movers out of my face as quickly as possible. Need to know. Cocky bastard. My apartment fills up agonizingly slowly, my heart pounds the whole time, and I can't stop pacing. It's all a trick. Pat's not in my head. He screwed up, and he's trying to do damage control and he's made a career out of manipulating people with his lies. Lies, that's the key.

The movers finish up. I tip the head guy with one bill from my wallet. I think it's a twenty. He seems satisfied. My hand is shaking. He takes forever to leave. I lock the door behind him and search every nook and cranny of my newly stocked apartment. No one left here. My heart pounds faster and louder and every pound makes my bullet wound pulse and every pulse hurts. I pop open my laptop and wait the twelve hours it takes to come out of hibernation. Slow-ass piece of garbage; I should have thought of that while the movers were here.

I'm calming down. I think. I don't have anything to prove to Pat or myself or anyone, and no one would know if I proved it anyways. So it doesn't matter. So it's back to the plan. Once the internet finds its way onto my machine I search for my next target. The logical next target, if I'm not skipping steps, is Allen Hartley. The most confusing name on the list. The guy who wouldn't even be on the freaking list if he didn't show up at my parent's house and stare me in the god damn face twenty minutes after they died. Maybe he knew then. Maybe that's why he looked so sad. Maybe he caught my eye on purpose.

It doesn't take me long to find where he lives. Freaking New York. Eight hours away. I'm not committing to a drive like that tonight. That's the kind of drive that requires a man to have a night of sleeping in bed behind him. And at least three days since his last bullet wound. Instead I make myself two packs of instant noodles while the directions repeat over and over in my head. My new super brain is super good at memorizing.

I figure I'll see how I feel in the morning. If I can move well and have enough new skin to cut out my stitches then it'll be go time. Otherwise I convalesce in extreme boredom for as long as necessary. I can't be killing people if there's a chance I could lose a fight, even if it means being alone with the idea that Pat is lurking in my head somewhere, ready to get his way at any second.

### Chapter 87

It takes me four days to wake up in a reasonably small amount of pain. On day five I get up early, eat a quick and healthy breakfast, pop my standard mega dose of painkillers, take a shower, and hit the road for the long, god-forsaken drive to New York State. The drive wouldn't seem nearly so long if I didn't know that I was going to get there, spend five minutes killing the guy, then turn around and do the whole damn thing over again.

I don't speed this time, at least not more than ten over the limit, which doesn't count. No sense in getting a ticket and slowing the process even more. I pass my day behind the wheel, stopping only once to urinate, consume greasy pizza, and refuel. I'm an efficient traveler and my car has a gigantic gas tank. It's late afternoon by the time I'm off the highway and rolling through the post-industrial shanty town that houses Allen Hartley. I spent four days memorizing the directions and looking at satellite pictures of this place online; I know this town better than my own.

A little before five, I roll up to the town house Hartley lives in and park around the corner. There are bars on the first floor windows and heavy steel doors in the front and on the side. Someone doesn't want someone like me coming in uninvited. Nothing I didn't expect. There's a ladder for a fire escape on the side of the house that drops me off on top of the back porch. I take it and wind up with two different, non-barred windows to choose from. I test the first one, and it's locked. That sounds about right.

The second window, however, slides right open. That's sloppy, Hartley, very sloppy. I'm not sure if I should have expected better from you or not. All I really know is you've got a good enough right hook to hurt your hand with, and you follow trouble around like a god damn puppy dog. I climb in through the open window and set foot on the thick, beige, stain-ridden carpet. The window falls shut behind me hard, then I hear a second slam. Turning around, I see a shiny new steel rod sticking across the window, preventing it from opening again. Touché, Mr. Hartley. Perhaps you'll impress me yet.

I'm in a small, furniture-free bedroom. There's a closet with its door hanging wide open. Nothing in it. The only other door to the room is closed. I walk over, expecting it to be locked. It's not. Instead when I open it I find a second door. A steel storm door with bars running up it every inch and a half and the glass taken out. That door is locked. Clearly he's thought about the possibility of a break in before. Probably didn't account for a burglar that was willing to kick his way through drywall, though.

Ten feet away, through the door and down the hall, I catch a glimpse of a big, shaved head bobbing its way up the stairs. If he didn't notice the slamming I still have the element of surprise. Even if I am locked in a makeshift prison. I decide for forfeit it, because I don't like having advantages. "Allen Hartley. Your presence is requested."

"Mr. Werner," He rounds the top of the stairs. He's smiling and holding a handgun wrapped in a big, long silencer. I hate it when they have guns. "I was wondering when I'd hear from you."

It would make sense if the man-trap was for me. That would also mean that they're talking to each other. It also means that I'm going to get shot again. Unless I play this one like a champion. "Open the door so I can beat you to death."

He settles in just outside the door with the gun pointed at me. The holes between the slats aren't enough for me to reach through more than a few inches, but I've got a whole room to dodge bullets in. It's a matter of how much ammunition he has. "I'm not going to do that." Damn. That would have made this whole thing easier. "Not before we come to an understanding."

Bargaining. How many steps is that before acceptance? Is it before or after rage? "You're not getting out of this, buddy. Sorry."

"I don't intend to beg for my life. I just want to make sure you don't kill me before we have a proper conversation." He's making himself more interesting by the minute. "Or I could shoot you."

I smile. "I'd like to see you...." There's a hiss, and I feel a sudden wind by my ear. That burst of wind lodges itself in the window frame. I don't finish my sentence.

"I know how your mind works better than you do. Your brain doesn't react properly when the gun is silenced. You could probably adjust, with practice, but I'm pretty good with this thing."

Time to rethink the strategy. My skin is starting to warm up. "Fine. You win. Let me out and we'll have our conversation."

"I'm looking right at you, and I'm not an imbecile. We're going to talk a little before I let you out. If you listen to reason, I'll let you live. If you can't calm down, that's the end of you."

Seems reasonable enough. I do my part to show I'm willing to play nice and sit down on the floor. I'm forcing the heat under my skin to subside a little, but it's being stubborn about going away completely. "Are you going to spend the rest of your life threatening me, or are you going start talking?"

"Your number is 003-002. You're lucky, you know. They gave it to you fast. I'm 004-001. They're giving me the slow burn."

It's hard to stay calm when your conversation partner is being as vague as he can muster. "And now we know that you can count. Is this going somewhere?"

He sighs. He's not smiling any more. "The technology is called Rattenfanger. They use high frequency sound to manipulate our brains. First they dosed three dozen in Afghanistan and they wound up completely off their rockers, too berserk to listen to orders. They went back to the drawing boards, came up with some new packages they could control better and grabbed two dozen more. And two guys who got a special dose. They've got another series in the works, only one candidate so far. Me. They've been pumping my head full of the stuff for months. Like I said, I get it slow."

"But you've still got your head on straight. You can fight back. We could be a team. Super-soldiers taking on the whole military."

"Not that easy. The first thing they took from me is the power to fight back. Next they took my free will, then they took my only way out." He taps on his temple. "They won't let me kill myself. Now I get six months to digest the garbage they put in my head before they start me again."

He puts a key in the door. I don't stand up. "You wanted me to see you. At the fire."

The door opens. I'm still sitting. "Exactly. I can't do anything, but for some reason you can. I'm going to give you all the help I can. Please, follow me."

I stand and follow him down the hall, down the stairs, and down another set to the furnished basement. The room right by the bottom of the stairs has no windows, but the light is already on. In the corner is a big plant hook with a noose hanging from it and a chair underneath. Allen walks over to a table a few feet away from that and picks up what looks like a driver's license. His driver's license. "Holton Applications Laboratory." I stop behind him. He hands me the driver's license. "That's what they used to call it, it's Hamlin now. This will get you in. 1477131118. Memorize it, write it down, whatever. They've got what's left of the 001's in the little warehouse building, the 002's in the big warehouse building. I assume they keep your counterpart, the other 003, in the silo-looking building. Everybody else, Pat included, is in the office building."

I stuff the card and repeat 1477131118 over and over in my head to make it hit the long term memory. There's a USB stick on the table. I stare at it while Hartley climbs up on his chair. He's got plenty more to say. "I don't know how you're able to do what you do, or if you'll be able to touch him, but if I end up like you, things are going to be a whole lot worse. I need you to kick the chair out."

My head turns. The noose is around his neck. "Hold on. I've got a lot of questions for you. We'll do the killing part later."

"That flash drive has videos on it. Watch them. Learn what you're up against. And pictures. You won't like what you see. Kick the chair out."

"That's all I get?"

"Yeah. Kick the chair out or I'll shoot you."

I look up at him. He looks desperate; his face is red even though he's not hanging. "You can fight it. All I did was fight it."

"I can't. I've tried. Kick the goddamn chair."

"Your card is going to be useless if you're dead. Hang out for a while. I'll do the dirty work."

"They don't expect to see me until after New Year's. You've got months. Kick the chair, Nate. Kick the goddamn chair."

I look at the chair. My hands are shaking. My skin is cold. If I kill him it's _me_ killing him. Not the monster they made me. I'm freezing, shivering even. "You need to give me a little more time. There needs to be a knowledge transfer here."

"All you need to do is get Pat. I told you where he is, just cut off the head and the body dies. Nothing else matters. Kill me, then kill him." He's staring a hole in me, shaking almost imperceptibly, and I'm just standing there in silence staring at his feet. " _It's not that fucking hard!_ "

My eyes snap up to look at him. "Fine. Quit hounding me already. I'll kick the damn chair."

I put my foot on it, my heart pounding. He clears his throat. "The day I met you, you were fighting with sticks. You were terrible at it. Have you tried since you changed?"

What a strange question. Instead of answering I hook the heel of my shoe around the chair leg and fling it across the room. He falls about three inches and doesn't thrash. I don't look back up. Allen Hartley. The USB stick on the table finds its way into my pocket along with a key to the front door.

### Chapter 88

The drive home is a blur. It's eight hours and two stops for gas and food, and I can't remember a moment of it. I don't crash, so I must have pretty good autopilot. I just killed someone. I just killed a real honest-to-god person. This doesn't feel good. This isn't like the screaming at all, it's all silence and guilt and looking at his goddamn face. I don't get back to my apartment until three in the morning. I can't remember the walk up the stairs either. All I can remember is feeling that chair get two hundred pounds lighter.

I'm in my apartment now, and I'm thinking about Pat. I'm thinking about the bathroom of the furniture store and how I could have gone off on him but I didn't. I'm thinking about how badly Allen must have wanted to take him out himself, seeing him every damn day and knowing exactly what he was doing to him. I'm getting warmer. I left my laptop open when I left, and it comes alive much faster this time. I learn from my mistakes.

The hard drive spinning dies down but my heart is only getting faster. It's getting hard to use my hands. My new brain is malfunctioning. I pop the USB stick in upside down. Doesn't fit. I flip it over and miss the port on the second pass. The next try I overcompensate to the other side and it won't go it. I hold the drive in one hand and use the other to guide it over the half millimeter into the port. It plugs in successfully. This feels like the greatest accomplishment of my life. The hard drive kicks up into high gear for another day and half. A password prompt comes up. Fuck you, Allen Hartley. You knew you were going to give me this thing and you forgot to give me the god damn password.

I try the common passwords, Love, Sex, Secret, God and Password. No luck. Probably nothing on the stick, just a hundred-plus character password that I'll lose my mind trying to crack. Allen was probably working for them and this whole thing was a set up. I'll lose my mind waiting for a dictionary to brute force its way in. Within a minute I'm downloading the appropriate utility, and I'm thankful at least my internet connection is fast. I do not relish the fact that I now get to wait anywhere from an hour to _the rest of my life_ for the password to be cracked.

While the download runs, I try a few more passwords. Fishing, cigars, mother, GeorgeBush, killNate, killbabies, Ilovetoconsumethesoulsoftheinnocentforsustenance, but they all fail. I was sure I was on to something with that last one, at least. I take another shot in the dark. Ding. We have a winner. TigerWoods. Sounds about right.

There's a folder for pictures and one for videos, and I go for the videos: "Subjects 001-034 & 001-002" and "Subject 003-001." I play the former first. A black and white video feed that looks like it comes from a security camera opens up with a black space below it. On the screen, a man and a woman crouch in opposite corners of a totally bare room, staring at each other. They're both skinny enough to look near dead, but I can see their breaths rise and fall.

After several seconds, text begins rolling across the black space in the bottom of the screen while the two skeletons stay perfectly still: "Subjects 001-034 and 002, Recovered with 38 others, Afghanistan, 2002. Former U.S Private and Private First Class. Initially, subjects were split into groups of five in separate cells. In each cell, roughly the same behavior appeared: five subjects assess each other for varying lengths of time. One aggressor completes the assessment first, engages the one perceived to be weakest in physical combat. The others join one by one over the course of the next fifteen seconds. Unfailingly, the first aggressor is the only survivor in each cell.

"The eight remaining subjects were divided into two cells of four. In one cell, the behavior is the same. A single aggressor, subject 001-027 engages the others in melee combat and emerges as the only survivor. In the other cell, subjects 0034 and 0002 both prove to be aggressors, and dispatch their cell mates. Aggression then ceases and the two return to the state of assessment of one another. This state persists for sixteen hours. Subject 0027 is introduced into the cell during hour seventeen. He is dispatched by the combined efforts of 0034 and 0002 in thirteen seconds, who then return to the assessment state.

"When the subjects are separated, both are able to attend to basic human functions such as hunger, thirst and fatigue. The instant the two are able to see each other, they return to the assessment state unfailingly. The longest stretch of this behavior thus far allowed was one hundred and ninety four hours, just over eight days. Neither subject showed any sign of faltering, and the two were separated to preserve their health."

The video file goes on for a few more seconds, showing nothing but the man and woman staring at each other. Weapons with all of their humanity stripped away.

### Chapter 89

I launch the second video. A black screen opens up that looks a lot like the other one. It's almost as if they came from the same source. White text starts appearing almost immediately. "Subject 003-001," they even use the same naming convention, "recovered domestically, six weeks before the first subject in unit 002. Former SSPO cadet; exhibits very different behavioral patterns from the 001 and 002 groups. These patterns appear consistent with those of subject 003-002, but data is insufficient. The following is a nonlethal combat exercise."

The black shifts to black and white, but fairly high resolution. It's a big empty room with a plain concrete floor. Ian stands in the middle of the screen, his left leg chained to a metal pole. It seems appropriate. Some guy in uniform comes at Ian, charging blindly and swinging wildly, like he knows he's going to get dropped and just wants to get it over with. Ian does just what I would have done: drops to one knee as the swing comes in and unloads an uppercut in the diaphragm of the impatient guy. The soldier goes down hard. Ian stops and watches the guy crawl a bit away, and then haul himself up and walk off screen.

Two guys come now, one presses hard, the other hangs back a step and a half. Ian grabs the foremost guy by the shirt like he's taking my advice before I give it and jerks him face-first into the pole, then kicks his feet out hard while he's wobbly. The second guy swings for a rabbit punch while he thinks Ian isn't paying attention, but Ian lurches forward and down, stretching his chained leg as far from the pole as possible. The attacker trips on the chain and falls onto Ian's back. He pivots on his chained foot, straightening as he goes, whips all the way around and knocks soldier boy home with an elbow to the back of the head that would drop a rhino.

I'm actually on my feet watching him go. Mackenzie rolls up into the picture, still as fat as he ever was. He shifts from side to side, circling around to keep Ian on the defensive and at the end of his chain. Almost smart, cornering his opponent in an open space, but he doesn't know us very well. He makes his final approach, gets between Ian and the pole, then Ian darts forward, sticking his chained leg between Mackenzie's and catching an expertly thrown fist. Mackenzie rips his hand down and pushes forward, using his bulk to his advantage, but Ian releases his fist, letting the bigger fighter break his fifth metacarpal on the metal pole.

The pain brings with it hesitation. Ian moves in real close and hooks the chain around Mackenzie's inner leg, using the pole and his opponent's own bulk to make attacks with his outer, uninjured hand impractical. Behind him, Santana darts into the picture, staying out of sight and keeping his movements quiet. Cheaters, stacking the deck. I tell myself I'd still sense he was there, but he was deadly silent before he got the super powers. Ian puts a hand on Mackenzie's inner shoulder; across his body, and I can't help it: I pause the video. "Holy crap, he does know he's there."

I take a second to gather my thoughts and walk through the motion in my head. It's so ingenious it's almost art. I'd never have thought of it in time. I unpause the movie. Santana moves swiftly. At the last possible second, Ian half jumps, half launches himself through the tiny space between Mackenzie and that pole, jerks his shoulder back, grabbing the back of the fat man's head as he spins around and _BAM_. He forces Mackenzie to head butt Santana, dropping him like a ton of bricks. He slides his arm up into a half nelson, then locks his arm across in the most beautiful headlock I've ever seen as the video comes to a close. I take a few deep breaths to process what I just saw. Maybe I see a little of what Pat meant about futility. That guy would hand me my ass. I'd better make sure I get some practice in.

### Chapter 90

I take it easy for three more days. Rearrange my apartment, play video games, drink heavily, and heal. Sometimes I do two or more simultaneously. I'm that good. At some point I crack open the folder with the pictures in it once, glance at a couple of the thumbnails of me and a man I don't know. There's a flash in my head of the same face, covered in blood and tears, and it makes me feel sick. I never look back at it. I know what he was trying to show me, and I'd like to live out the rest of my life without coming to terms with it. Hartley must have been following me, he must have known it was coming. The USB stick crapped out after the twenty-third time I watched Ian's video, long before I would have had the foresight to copy the files onto my hard drive, so I smashed the damn thing with my car door and tossed pieces of it in three different dumpsters at least six miles away from each other. For security reasons.

Now that I know what I'm going up against for the grand finale, it's time to get the show moving again. I've got to get some serious practice in if I'm going to be the last man standing, and I've got to keep my mind off of those little pictures and Pat's little speech and that chair flying across the room and Amy's face full of tears and the pain in my chest that won't seem to go away and the fact that it's still hard to twist to the left and everything else I could possibly think of to think about other than killing the bad guys. Once more I find my victim's place of residence with little trouble. Always remember to erase your browser history when plotting murder, boys and girls. It's just good manners.

My boy Percival lives closer than the rest of them so far. Good. I've spent too much money on furniture lately to waste a thousand tanks of gas tracking down the world's evilest secretary. I head straight for Zogby's place, even though it's the early afternoon on a weekday. The guy keeps strange hours, so you never know when he could be home. Or when you could get the drop on him.

He's got a pretty nice place, the upper two floors of a big two-family city house with the brick outside, plaster, and ancient-looking handrails on the staircase leading up. He's got to be pulling down some serious Gs taking notes for those clowns. Maybe it's hush money. The lock is one of those old skeleton key things that anyone with a little patience and some reasonably small instruments could pick. Style, or laziness, wins over substance. It takes me ten minutes. It's a little annoying that I can't lock the door behind me, but hardly necessary. I wouldn't want to have to pick it going both ways. I tend to be in more of a hurry on the way out.

He's not home. His place is decorated. He's got pictures of castles, churches and landscapes lining the walls, and mini-replicas of sculptures that even I would recognize resting on every available surface. There seems to be a bit of a bird theme going on, complete with a bust of Athena over his chamber door with a fake raven perched on it. How quaint. I take a seat on a red and black leather couch that faces a marble fireplace instead of a television. This place feels like it's practically oozing with money now. He must know something serious; he doesn't really seem like a guy worth bribing. I catch a brief nap on his couch before he gets home.

### Chapter 91

The hollow sound of a key unlocking a door that isn't locked wakes me. It's dark out now. I roll off the couch early enough that he probably doesn't hear the squeaking of the leather. I perch on the ground as he walks up the stairs, light steps in hard-soled shoes. He puts his briefcase down, drapes his jacket over something, but doesn't take his shoes off. I crawl, unseen, across the floor while he heads into the kitchen.

He's half-way inside the fridge when I hit the doorway. It's almost too easy. He closes the fridge door, holding what appears to be half of a jell-o mold fruit thing. Some dinner. He still doesn't see me. I leap to my feet and make a little noise doing it. He sees me now, and it scares the crap out of him. The green stuff goes flying. I can't help but laugh at the sight, and it probably sounds maniacal as all hell. The glass dish bounces off a cabinet, falls to the floor, and shatters. He startles again at the sound, but he has nothing to throw this time. I let him regain his composure.

"Who the hell are you, and why are you in my house?"

A swear coming from him seems more potent than it does from most, but it's more that lack of recognition that offends me. After all we've been through. "You seriously don't remember me? Do you have some sort of disorder, man? Jesus Christ. What does it take to make an impression on you?"

"You're trying to make an _impression_?" Oh, he's good and mad. He doesn't quite understand things yet. "Breaking in to my house sure makes a goddamn impression."

"One, you sound really weird when you swear. Two, we've met like ten times. We've had long conversations. We've been on opposite ends of a lawsuit, for Christ's sake."

"Listen, I don't know who you think I am, but obviously there's been some mistake. Get out of my apartment, now, or I will call the police, and we'll see if _they_ recognize you."

"Percival Zogby, right?"

"How do you know my name?"

"Either you've got an evil twin that's been pretending to be you, or I know your name because your boss drafted me into hell on earth for his own entertainment!"

"Please...."

"Nate."

"Nate. I don't bring my work home with me."

I punch him in the face and feel something in his nose pop. He screeches and bleeds. "Work just made a house call." I almost punch myself in the face for that cheesy one liner.

He backpedals into the counter behind him and stumbles a bit. I've got him cornered. "Are you out of your mind?"

"You really have no idea what this is about? I don't get you, man. You have no remorse? You ruin people's lives. You run errands for the devil and help create mass murderers with a smile on your face. You really think you can just leave that in the office?"

He's on the ground now, basically on his knees, blood pouring from his nose and tears from his eyes. My stomach turns. "Please. If that's what this is about, I'm sorry. I'll quit. Just please don't hurt me any more."

I've never had someone beg before. I don't know. I hate this guy. I'm sure I do, but I, I don't know. He's so scared. Hartley's face with a rope wrapped around it looms in my mind. Isn't that enough of a punishment? He was scared too. It was a different kind of scared. I stare hard into his face. Is he really that scared, or does he think he can manipulate me? Is this a trick? He knows I'm still more human than the rest of them and he thinks he can use that to get away safely. He thinks I can still be reasoned with. Anything with reason can be manipulated. He thinks he's got me. He thinks he's going to walk.

I keep staring at his eyes, and that glimmer of hope I saw before now looks more mocking than earnest. Son of a bitch. "You lying prick, you know exactly who I am." He tries to protest, but wordlessly. I grab a shard of his glass plate, a nice big one, then grab his hair and pull his head back. He stares into my eyes. Maybe he really is afraid of me. I jam the glass shard through his jugular and trachea, then toss him face down in his fruity salad and walk out without getting a speck of blood on me.

### Chapter 92

The drive home is hell. My mind is in a screaming match with itself over what I just did. I killed a begging errand boy. He didn't do anything. He didn't draft me, he didn't send me to war and he didn't make me a monster. But he did. It was easy to kill him. The guilt was so tiny, so insignificant. It's huge now. I tried to stop myself. I think I did. Why couldn't I stop myself? I don't think I wanted to. I have willpower. I've beaten this thing all along, why couldn't I beat it to save a crying, begging clerk?

I haven't beaten it. Maybe that's the rub. Maybe I'm so far behind I'm convinced what it wants me to do is what I want to do. Damn it. I'm losing. I'm losing it. I could do it before. I glance at myself in the rear view mirror. Veins as black as asphalt running all through my face. How long have they been like that? I have no idea. I've been avoiding my own reflection. Maybe it's the reason Zogby didn't recognize me. I spend about four minutes struggling to get my right front pocket to release my phone while I'm still in a sitting position, then flip it open and dial Chelsea. It's autopilot. I need help.

Voicemail. "Chelsea. Nate. Figured you wouldn't pick up. Still mad at me. I need to talk to you very, very badly. It's not what you think it is. I'm losing my mind and I need your help. When has a person changed so much that you don't know them anymore? That came out terrible. Am I still me, Chelsea? I need to know if I'm still one of the good guys. If I ever was one to begin with. Sorry. Call me back."

I cough and then hang up. I already know I can't take back that voicemail. Maybe I sounded just desperate enough to get some sympathy. That's really the best I can hope for. More likely I've moved myself into creepy stalker territory. I'm okay with that. Fighting it will just dig the hole deeper. I cough again. My body feels like death on toast. Too much excitement for one day, apparently I just can't handle full speed yet. My mind can't decide what it can handle.

### Chapter 93

Two days go by, and I don't hear anything from Chelsea. My veins don't turn back either. They're on fire and everything I see I want to kill and I want to see everything. I know how to stop it, but I don't know if I can do that anymore. I don't know if I should do it anymore. But the only ones left are so far on the evil side, there's no moral ambiguity like there was with Zogby. Maybe just one.

But not like that. Not like an addict, an over-eater who can't leave the last few cookies alone. I'll stick to the plan. Methodical. Righteous. If the misgivings get stronger, I'll stop then and reassess. After Jess is dead. She's next. It's a long drive. I have a long time to make sure I'm committed. I'm committed. I'd be crazy not to kill her. She's already killed me two times. I'll make sure she doesn't make it three.

I drive all the way there without looking for directions and once again I can't remember a minute of the drive. In my head Percival is crying and Hartley is screaming and Gil is so sure he knows me and Frank is taking a swing and there's this other thing, a swirl of darkness and movement and my stomach turns just thinking about it. I pull up into her driveway; the same old SUV sits there, a little cleaner this time. I block it in just like last time, and park the car. I'm nice and calm. This is nothing like the last time at all. I step out of my car, breathing slowly, calmly, and walk over to the front door. This is no crime of passion. I'm sure. The door is new, but it looks about the same. The paint is shiny red, shinier that I remember it being. Probably a harder wood. The thing probably weighs a ton. Guess I'm not invited back in, then.

I ring the doorbell, just like last time. Just like last time, but fainter thanks to the high density door, I hear someone moving around inside but not answering the door. I stand in front for a good, long time, let her know I'm out here, but don't break my ankle on the new portal. I look around the neighborhood, which doesn't appear to exist. No houses close enough, with a good enough line of sight, to give me any trouble. Probably why she got away with shooting me in broad daylight with an unsilenced weapon.

I step off the front porch and back into the yard, then off to the side to correct my angle. I take a deep breath, then a running start, and hurl myself into the bay window adjacent to the front door.

Glass flies all around me in slow motion. I can't help but think of Ian. There's a bang, and immediately I'm pissed I let myself get distracted for half a second. I land on my feet pretty sure there's no bullet lodged in me, then I find the gun and grab the hand holding it, shoving it up into the air. On the way up, I notice a tear in my jacket, blood seeping into the sleeve and making the brown look black. The bullet grazed my arm. I can't feel it, but I'm sick of it.

"Stop shooting me!"

Jess is staring straight into my eyes. She looks scared. My stomach turns as I think of Zogby. She doesn't stay silent this time. "My husband is a boxer. If he sees you...."

I wrench the gun, the one that's successfully shot me more than once, out of her hands and stuff it into the back of my pants. "You shot me three times, left me for dead in a frozen wasteland, and I just came through your window like I was in an action movie. Do I seem like I should be afraid of a boxer?"

Silence. We stare at each other, breathing more heavily than the brief bout of physical activity would dictate. She puts her arms around me. I'm frozen, panicking and I don't know why. There isn't a damn thing this little girl can do to me, with or without a...she plants her lips on mine. It's pretty impressive elevation for her. Her tongue finds its way into my mouth. I'm shaking hard, like there's a massage chair under my skin stuck on high. She wraps her legs around me. This was not part of the plan.

I'm not kissing back, and suddenly I realize something. I'm not like them. If I was I would have bit her tongue the hell off. Instead I shove my hand between our faces, get a grip on her chin and shove her backwards. The motion is enough to get her to slacken her legs, and the little lieutenant falls hard to the floor. My head is spinning. I'm still shaking. Got to take control back here. "What the hell was that?"

She wipes her mouth and climbs to her feet. She's got to be in pain, she's got bits of broken glass is her arms and hands, but she's not showing it. "A survival technique, Werner. I should have known you were gay."

### Chapter 94

I'm standing in the living room of the woman who shot me three times. She's lying on the floor, staring up at the ceiling. My heart is pounding, but it's a different pound than I'm used to. I'm not really clear on what's happening here. I've got to regain control. "The, uh, boxer. He ever coming home?"

"We were divorced three years ago."

"Ah. You shoot him too?"

"Fuck you, Werner."

"So it's just me, then? Maybe I should take it as a compliment."

"I've got more guns, you know. I could shoot you again."

"I'm getting kind of sick of that."

"So. Are you going to try to kill me again, or are you starting to realize you still don't have it in you?"

Ugh. I sigh as profusely as I can muster. "I'm not going to try. You said yourself it was inevitable. I'd be just the same as them some day."

She sits up. "I was lying, moron. Any idiot could see that you weren't going to end up like...."

"Any idiot would be wrong. I'm a killer, the same as the rest. The only one who made it was Gil, and he's dead now."

"What the hell are you talking about? We both saw Gil turn with the rest of them."

"He faked it. He was stronger than me, even though he was a coward. They must have sent him home when they realized they didn't turn him. Maybe they killed his parents too."

"You sound like an idiot, a crazy one too. He was a clown who got lucky."

"I killed him."

The crickets chirp. It felt good to say it out loud. Liberating. "You really are killing people these days, then? Wow. You've fallen pretty damn far."

"I don't know. I don't know what I'm doing. Sometimes I think I'm still playing the same game I was before, sticking it to the man and standing up for my beliefs, just I'm better at it now. Other times I realize that I'm a murderer and I feel like I've already lost. I don't know what's right. Maybe neither."

"You're not one of them, Nate." She stands up, staring at me. She'd better not try making out with me again. "You never will be. You're not killing anyone the world is going to miss."

"You're one of them, you know."

"You don't think I've got it coming? I should have done something the first time, in Afghanistan. Two thirds of my unit made the change right in front of me. I was the only one who knew it was coming. I could have done something then, and I could have done something with you guys. I should have shot the lot of you before it happened."

"You're lying. You relished it. I was there. I saw how much fun you were having."

"Yeah. I love combat. I'm not so different from you, except this is how I am naturally. But I don't love what I did to you and the rest of them."

"Then why'd you do it? Twice?"

"They begged me."

"So?"

"You don't say no to the Directors of the Selective Service Systems and Special Security Project Operations if you want to have a nice, long career in the military. And you don't pass up a chance to be the Army's expert on the next new technology."

"Technology."

"Yeah."

"You never considered getting a real job?"

"Being a soldier is my life. I just fell in with the wrong people." I don't say anything. I don't know what I would say. She's looking at me. I'm shaking, just a little, but she can't see it. "Hey. Don't worry. You're going to walk away from all this, just like you walked away from the holes I put in you."

"If I even want to walk away."

"You do. And when you do, you're going to buy me a new window."

She only half believes it, but it makes me feel mean. I back her up two steps until she's against the wall and bring my forearm across her larynx just hard enough to stop her from saying anything more. She doesn't struggle. "Maybe I will make it. I don't know. But fuck you and your window." My skin starts cooling down. Look how far I've come. I press my forearm down hard, and crush everything in her throat that matters. She doesn't last long after that.

### Chapter 95

I feel dirty. I use her shower and come out feeling dirtier. I have no idea what I'm doing. I get dressed in a rush, still wet so my clothes cling to me and feel awful. I look at Jess, dead on her floor. Why the hell did I stick around to take a shower? Would she really have...? Would that have stopped me? I shake my head. The thought alone, I don't even know. I shake my head, then slap myself. Whew. I eye the gun, her gun, sitting on the bathroom floor. It's the gun that shot me two and a half times. It's my gun by right. I pick it up. It's lighter than it should be. The whole thing seems a little anticlimactic as I shove it into my big coat pocket.

I explore the house just a little bit, finding myself unwilling or unable to leave right away. It's a good size, with primer on the walls that was never painted over and prints of paintings of houses you'd see in Cape Cod on the walls. Seems too peaceful for Jess's style, must be leftovers. The den has a pressed uniform under glass on the wall, a World War 2 helmet, and oodles of other war memorabilia. It's the kind of den I would have expected Frank to have. I clear my throat.

The kitchen is generic black and white tile. The fridge contains very little food, but plenty of beer. We're not so different. I grab a beer, a hefty import in a 20 oz glass bottle with one of those stopper heads that you can reseal as much as you want if you can't hold your booze. I pop it open. It tastes expensive. I have no idea what I'm doing. Wandering back into the living room and sipping my beer, I find myself wondering if she's really dead. This whole time, getting her has been one of the main things keeping me going. It's a strange, empty feeling knowing that such an important part of the whole thing is over. The enemy I could talk to, the one who almost kind of knew me, is dead.

Maybe things will feel better when I get Pat. He won't even try to play to my sympathies. He knows better than that. I look over at Jess's corpse, which is still a corpse. I don't know how much of this was really her fault. She helped ruin a lot of lives, though. She may have been a pawn, but she was the most vicious pawn I've ever seen. I pound the second half of my oversized beer and leave the bottle on the counter. My body doesn't seem to be willing to leave this place for some morbid reason, but my mind gets the most votes, and it's started moving in the right direction. Jess gets a quick pat on the head before I turn and walk out, climbing through the window I shattered to make my entrance. We're getting to the home stretch now.

### Chapter 96

It's getting to the point that I don't even notice my heart rate skyrocketing any more, and I don't bother avoiding the mirror. It is only when we accept our faults that we may rise above them. The only one who could touch me is dead now. The rest is going to be easy.

When I get back to my apartment it's empty, quiet; and I'm alone, like always. There's plenty of beer in the fridge, and beer is my friend. With two people left on my list there are no longer any questions about the order. Just big and bigger. I remove and crack open a normal sized can of cheap, domestic beer. Some things are better left unchanged. The difficulty now lies in approaching the unapproachable. Everyone I've dispatched thus far has been relatively unimportant in the greater scheme of things. Cut off the head and the body dies. Beatrice and Pat hold serious government positions. Serious government facilities have serious security, and I don't know how to plan for that. They also don't have openly published home addresses.

There's a knock on the door. Well now who could that be? I say "Who is it?" There's no answer. "Who's there?" There's no answer. I go over to the door. There's no peephole. Stupid short sighted decision making. "Who's there?" They're not saying anything. Screw it. I open the door. It's some skinny guy. No one I know, but he looks familiar. He stares at my face, hard, like he's trying to look through it. I know that stare. I send it right back. Subject 001-002. From the video. They're playing my game now. I was beginning to worry. I step aside, allowing him in. No sense in having a super fight in the hall. He enters, never taking his eyes off me.

I wish the video had shown some of his actual combat style. I get that he's sizing me up. The longer it takes, the bigger the threat he must perceive me as. I close the door behind him and turn to preempt his process. It turns out I'm not quite dangerous enough. He jumps me as I'm turning back towards him, and I barely get a hand up to block. I can see right away he's a striker, so I need to be close. I force the hand he swung with to stay away from me, but mistime the second block, and he gets me across the cheek. It's too quick a shot to hurt me. He's just letting me know he can tag me whenever he wants. This is psychological. He's a stupid punk, and he should have assessed me longer. I'm no striker. I press forward while rolling through the blow and grab him on the shoulder. I give him a smile. I can play the mind game too.

I jerk him forward, pivot around him, and lock a beautiful sleeper hold on. Squeezing tightly, I lean up and whisper in his ear. "Nice try, douche bag. I'm the cutting edge of violence technology. You're just a prototype."

It's so fast. He drops his shoulder, throws his arm up, turns ever so slightly while bending his knees and _bam_. I'm on my back. That sneaky punk. I kip up, but he cracks me in the chest with both hands while I'm on the way up, and I go right back down. Damn it. I'm coughing to catch my breath. I roll; he catches me under the right arm and pins me down on my stomach. I fight to get over farther, but his weight keeps me in place while he locks on the half nelson. He's pressing me from so many fronts at once. Can't keep track of everything. His other hand gets a workout on my ear and my brain is rattled enough to think of when I did this to Gil. I'm being toyed with. I never stood a chance.

With one arm and two legs I shove myself up to a crouch. He's locked on and still punching me. The blows rattle a stray memory loose in my mind and suddenly Allen Hartley shows up, and everything is a little bit clearer. He was a damn smart fellow. I bring him with me, painfully dragging myself across the floor to my umbrella stand. He's not looking where I'm going, thinks he's got me dead to rights. He's stupid. My free arm grabs an umbrella and swings it back at him. He catches it with his punching hand, because he's faster than me and my angle sucks. I let go, turn hard and bash him into the doorjamb. His grip loosens enough for me to free my other arm. I pivot away and grab the real weapon, the bokken, from the umbrella stand.

"That's the problem with you, buddy. All psycho killer, no finesse."

He swings the umbrella at me and I block easily. He's lightning fast, but an umbrella is unbalanced and awkward and a bokken is like a third arm for me. I can't believe I haven't played with one in so long. I'm awesome at this. He turns his swing into a jab; I force it off to the side and slap him across the face with the end of the stick, just hard enough to show him I can get him whenever I want. He presses; I back up, through the doorway and into the kitchen.

Now we're trading swings and parries through the doorway. He's learning quickly, but there's no way to get a shot in. There's too little space for him to work with, easy to defend. I botch a block on purpose, and he steps into the doorway. Amateur. Instead of swinging through a shrunken space, he's given himself a shrunken space to exist in. I bat his sword down, pivot to the side, and hit the end of the umbrella straight down as hard as I can, popping it right out of his hand, then swing right up and crack him in the jaw. He reels and I press, jabbing him in the chest, tagging the hand he tries to block with and pushing him back until there's nowhere to go, then I bring the bokken across this throat. It's easy to get him pinned up against the wall from there. He struggles, but he's too weak already. I press hard, with all my weight, and his neck collapses under the strain. He managed to hurt me. He gets the same death as Jess.

### Chapter 97

I've got a body in my apartment, and my head is still operating at only partial capacity thanks to my new concussion. This is a new part of the serial killer job, and it requires me to be cold and calculating, and yet to specifically not lust for blood. Everything is fuzzy, and these portions of my brain are distended from disuse, but I've been punched in the brain plenty of times before. I can do this. How does the Nate who performs operations on himself in a parking lot ditch a body without anyone seeing him do it? He doesn't drag it through some of the most densely populated parts of the city in order to toss it in the river, obviously. He's not that stupid.

After sitting on the floor and staring at a corpse for half an hour, though, I decide that he is _almost_ that stupid. He's at least going to cut the damn thing up first. I drag the body to the bathroom and shove it in the tub, and while I've got him half off the ground and half upside down a mini cassette recorder that I would have expected to see in 1995 falls out of his pocket. That's something I'll have to deal with later, right now I need to rationalize the situation. He's been a missing person for years. Probably one of the ones that turned in Afghanistan. No one's going to miss him but the people who think he killed me, and they probably weren't expecting him to come home. Not that people who see a guy dragging a corpse around are going to think, "Oh, it's ok, he's probably just some guy the military had declared legally dead years ago. I won't bother calling the police." But those people aren't going to see a guy dragging a corpse; they're going to see a guy dragging a garbage bag. Take that, conscientious member of the public! You and your cell phone can suck it!

The water turns itself on, and I find myself slitting his throat and propping him up. Draining the blood seems like a good idea. I get a new beer from the fridge while 002 bleeds out. I also grab my most serrated kitchen knife. It's new. It can be a bone saw. I chug the beer, then open up another and bring it with me to the bathroom. When I see 002 in the tub, upside down and pouring blood down the drain, I pound the beer, head back to the kitchen and grab another one and a black garbage bag.

I don't think that you can really appreciate how disgusting flesh is until you've sawed into it. Over and over. It's enough to turn a guy into a vegetarian. It takes hours to get him into small enough pieces for my liking, and I narrowly escape vomiting more than a couple times. I came out of it with a travel sized and triple layered bag of body parts and a new appreciation for the stomach it takes to be a surgeon. I check myself out in the mirror before I head out, and my face doesn't look too badly caved in. Maybe I could be a boxer. My veins are easily light enough to pass for an unmutated human, and might even kind of help hide my identity.

The bag and I take a trip down in the elevator, then out to my car. He's heavy, but he was nice and skinny and draining the blood saved a few pounds. I wonder where I got the foresight to buy contractor garbage bags. 002 and I take a drive down to the water. It's been dark for a while now, and there isn't really anyone around. The buildings are probably packed with people, and I'm just going to have to assume my luck works out vis-a-vis people looking out windows and calling the police. I stuff some loose chunks of asphalt and rocks from the edge of the road into the bag and squeeze the air out while trying as hard as I can not to look around and thus giving the appearance that I'm totally not nervous and thus that I totally shouldn't be nervous and thus that I'm totally not doing anything wrong, and haul the even heavier bag out onto the bike bridge going over the river.

No one's watching me, not that it wouldn't be too late if they were. Around the middle of the river, 002 gets dumped over the railing. That's the end of him. I feel a little bad. He wasn't one of them, but he wasn't really a person any more. I head back to my car. This should not have been executed sober, even if that was the only way to avoid screwing it up. I head home to right that wrong in short order, visions of mini cassettes dancing in my head.

### Chapter 98

I'm sitting on the floor in my apartment just about surrounded in empty beer cans and bottles, staring at the little cassette recorder like it's a puzzle I just can't figure out. There's no safe way to listen to this thing if they can knock me out for a day with a cell phone. Playing it for someone else might compromise their brain, and there's no one to play it for anyways. Maybe if I muffle it really well, wrap the recorder in a towel and turn the volume down and only play it for a second. Maybe I'll get to hear the sound that controls my mind. Before I'm even done building the idea I've decided on it and I've got a kitchen towel wrapped around the speaker, all while knowing this may be the dumbest thing I've ever done. I press play and move my finger immediately to the stop button. There's silence and then there's blackness.

And then I'm face down on the floor, literally, and bleeding from the nose. The mini recorder is on the ground right near my head, the battery compartment has popped open, and a triple A is halfway out of its spot. Stupid and lucky, that's what I am. I get my feet working, get on them, and look over at the kitchen clock. Of course I was too stupid to check the time before I hit the button, because thinking ahead isn't high on the list of priorities for a guy who voluntarily subjects himself to mind control. At least I've got brains enough in my head to hit the stop button before I pop the battery back in to the dumb thing. I can't believe I'm even considering trying again.

The useless towel becomes a blood absorber while I think about my second pass at this thing. If I was a scientist I would concoct some kind of a system for reverse engineering the sound waves that sneak into my brain, but I'm not a scientist, and I've been drinking, so I've got to use whatever dumb idea pops into my head. I walk over to my stereo and turn in on and up. The rock station I left it tuned to doesn't come in too well, but I'm thinking static can only help my cause. Hopefully my soundproofing is legitimate. With my head right up near the speaker I hold the cassette player way out behind me and hit play, once more moving my finger directly to the stop button. I hear nothing but a slightly garbled rap metal song from ten years ago for several seconds, then everything goes black again.

When I come to my head is throbbing where I bashed it into the stereo table, the speaker is on the floor, and a different song is playing. The battery popped out again, and I'm thankful to myself for not putting the cover back on it. I hit stop, pop the little guy back in, and look over at the clock. Lost less than two minutes. That's data, and the fact that it took longer to knock me out the second time must count for something too. My ears are ringing from the music and my head is rattled, but I've got another stupid idea, I'm drunk and concussed, and there's no one around to stop me from hurting myself further. So I had might as well go for it.

I set the two speakers up with just enough room for my head between them, lower the volume to a whisper, crank the treble all the way up, stick my head between the speakers with my eyes closed, and jack the music up as loud as it will go as fast as physically possibly. Both of my ears essentially explode in an instant, and I turn the sound back down while pulling my head out of the death trap I made myself. I kill the music the rest of the way, hoping I haven't made enemies out of too many of my neighbors, and listen to the ringing in my ears and nothing else. Hopefully I'm not deaf forever now. I've got to stop abusing myself for the night.

### Chapter 99

I try the tape recorder again in the morning, my ears still ringing away, and make it through the whole tape without blacking out or hurting myself. It makes me feel sick as hell, and my vision goes blurry a couple times, but I hold things together and I'm damn proud of myself for being so stupid. Deafness is a small price to pay for continued control over my faculties. After pissing the morning away confirming that I've mitigated what was probably my biggest weakness, I resume my quest and hop in the car, ready to chase down the second to last person on my little list.

The best way to find the home of someone when you know where they work is to follow them home. It seems easy enough. Beatrice Conroy works in a big fancy office building in Arlington. I'm parked outside the garage. I'm getting sick of driving. My car is running. I already did a walkthrough of the lowest level. Her space is labeled, and her car is in it: a big shiny silver number, luxury, all the bells and whistles. It's even got those cool LED headlights that look all space age. It's good to see my tax dollars are being put to good use. Maybe I'll get something fancy like that when I'm done. If I can bring myself to part with this boat.

The evil nun from hell emerges from the building at ten of five. Sneaking out before the closing bell; that's about the work ethic I'd expect. She never looks over at my car. There's no reason for her to look out at the plebian portion of the lot from her fancy reserved space. Even if Pat let on that there was a problem with me, which his ego would never allow him to do, she doesn't know who I am. She doesn't even have a reason to believe she'd be on my list in the first place. It's easiest when people delude themselves. No point in looking over your shoulder if you don't think you've done anything wrong.

Abusing your power and destroying lives counts as pretty wrong in my book. She starts her car and pulls out of the lot. I wait a few seconds, then follow her. It's hard to tell if she's noticing me behind her. I haven't practiced tailing people, as I'm not sure how I would do that. She doesn't lead me around in any circles, though. So it seems all right. The ringing in my ears is driving me nuts.

She leads me on another long drive, down into a rich area in northern Virginia. I'm happy I filled up when I got to Arlington. Her house is big and generic on the outside, with big vinyl windows, brick that serves no purpose and two chimneys. I drive past it while she parks and park myself on the street that runs behind her house. All the houses in this neighborhood look the same, especially from behind. I count them off to make sure I've got the right one. No play set in the back, no kids. No shed, no grill, no husband. Makes sense for the old bag.

I leave my car on the street between two houses, so the people inside them can each assume I'm visiting their neighbors, and cut through their yards. No one has any fences because that's probably against the rules in a development like this and my battered body thanks them for that right before I drop into a feet-first slide a couple yards from her house and kick out a prefab basement window. It's hard to gauge with my ears mostly ruined, but I don't think it's too noisy, and she's probably on the second floor by the time I do it.

### Chapter 100

No lights on in the basement. I wait for several minutes and none turn on. I put the window back in its slot, as closely emulating a non-kicked-out window as I can. I take a second to be amused by the fact that every person I've had to go after has been misanthropic enough to live alone. It takes a lot of the guilt out of the job. Or maybe that's the altered brain chemistry talking.

I slink around the basement until I find the fuse box. I'm guessing she has portable phones. They need grid power to run. She's got a cell phone, I'd bet, though. I kill the main power to the house, then head up the stairs. A cat runs by and almost stops my heart. I take a second. There's still plenty of light. Her purse is on the counter in the kitchen, right at the top of the stairs. I peer inside. Cell phone. Too easy. The phone gets tossed down into the basement and I hope the screen cracks when it lands. I close the door.

The cat is staring at me. I wave. She cocks her head then walks away. I head up the stairs. Nice, thick carpet makes it easy to be quiet. It's a little harder to find what room she's in with no lights on. Especially in such a big house with soft flooring when I have broken ears. I stop in the hallway, looking from door to door. Why would anyone need this many rooms if they lived by themselves? She delivers herself to me eventually, exiting a room two doors down from the end of the hall in a shiny pink flower night gown.

"Oh...!"

It's the first time I've heard a live human voice since I fixed my head, and it's terrible. The gravelly quality that I remember hating so much before is filtered out. She sounds like she's shouting through tin can filled with kazoos, and the sound kind of makes my eye twitch. "Snap?" Ugh, I sound almost as bad. "SSPO left-handed specialist reporting for duty, ma'am."

She's flustered. "I don't know what you think this is...."

"This is your home. You drafted me into that program of yours. You chose me to become a zombie. Why me, specifically?"

"I don't even know who you are. Besides, there hasn't been a draft since...."

I like interrupting her. It's easy and it makes me feel dangerous. "Since this past spring. When you drafted me and two dozen others into an experiment called Rattenfanger. Unless you've done it again since. The name is Nathan Werner. The guy who made it through your program. Why was I chosen?"

She sighs. She doesn't seem scared any more. Maybe she'll draft me again to get me out of her house. "It's all very complicated."

"Make me understand."

"Unfortunately, I don't believe I will be able to do that. This is not a value judgment on you, I want you to understand, this is simply, in its nature, something that is beyond someone of your capacity."

"Yeah. We've already established you think I'm stupid. Try anyways."

Her sigh is violently profuse this time, like the absolute worst thing anyone could ever ask of her was this explanation. I give myself extra points for being annoying. "You fit the profile. I do not remember your file specifically, but I could venture a guess. Mid-twenties, unemployed, no college degree. A history of drug use. Low to average scores on standardized exams from grade-school on. Maybe a brief athletic background, but nothing impressive. No involvement in community organizations, not registered to vote or for Selective Service. Few living relatives, none close, likely a history of minor psychosocial disturbances, all well documented. Need I continue?"

I almost drop-kick her right there. There's no special trigger that's built in to us, some ticking clock that they found to use in specific people? They just wanted a bunch of guys who would keep their mouths shut. "You profile destroys people's lives, Beatrice. You can't just play God because you drew up a list of the attributes of a slacker."

"I didn't think you would see the bigger picture. This is about the future. Money can only rule the world for so long. The future is in _men_ , young man. In an age of guerilla warfare, men and women who can surpass the normal...."

"And turn into robots."

"Do you feel like a robot, Mr. Werner?" Pause. What? "That's right, young man. I know the process worked on you. It never fails. You have given us some very interesting data to examine. You can content yourself in knowing that the fourth generation will be much more like you than your comrades."

"The project is over."

"I don't believe that. There are fail safes in place. Mr. Hall and I are quite safe from you. You are welcome to try to harm me. I know that's what brings you here."

Cocky. There's no such thing as mind control, though. I'm not stupid. I froze up when I had Pat in my sights, but that was my choice. It wasn't time. There's no signal now, not without electricity, and I'm half deaf to it regardless. I'm in control. She's walking away. I'm not following her. Why? I can move. I know I can. One foot in front of the other. She's on the stairs. She's going for the cell phone. Move, Nate. Move. She's not even watching me, she's so sure. She's so damn sure she's got me.

My feet move. I take a step. She's on the stairs. Get mad. Warm up. Hotter. She thinks so little of me. Prove her wrong. It'd be so easy. Two hands, one neck. She's on the third step. I can feel it. It's there, and I control it. I take a deep breath, close my eyes, and run. One shoulder drops down, into her spine. She flies down the stairs. I come tumbling after. She lands on the back of her head, legs in the air. I land on her legs, folding her up like an accordion. Her brain and spine take all the force together.

Not the prettiest kill of my life, but I got her. If that's the safeguard, Pat's a big, fat corpse too. I struggle to my feet, shaking the cobwebs out of my head. My chest is bleeding again, my left side aches and my ears ring. I'm piling up old injuries like it's my job. The cat is sitting on the banister, looking at me. She's grey with a white underbelly. I limp a little bit on the way over and pet her. She likes me. That makes one. I limp through the yards in the dark with my new cat, get into my car and start the ridiculously long drive home.

### Chapter 101

The cat, whose name is now Crispy, meows quite a bit in the car. So it's her own damn fault if the name is stupid. It's a long drive. I stop for ice cream on the way back. Crispy appears to like vanilla soft serve quite a bit. It's a good night. Chilly, but good. I call Chelsea a little ways into the second hour. I don't expect an answer. "Hello?"

She must not have checked caller ID. Opportunity smiles upon me. "Chelsea. Nate. Please don't hang up."

"Why would I hang up? I answered."

"Thought it might have been an accident."

"It wasn't. What's all that noise?"

"My cat. I have a cat now. She hates the car."

"Why a cat? I never thought you were the type."

"She needed a home. Plus I didn't have anyone to talk to."

"Don't play the guilt card with me."

"But it works so well. I've seen it." There's a long pause where there should be playful banter. Clearly she's forgotten the standard structure of our conversations. "Hello? Anybody there?"

"We broke up."

"Oh. Like the real kind, or like the every other week kind?"

"Jesus, Nate." She exhales sharply. "The real kind. As I'm sure you, and everyone in the world except stupid Chelsea, was aware, he was cheating on me."

I should probably sound sympathetic, here. That's not a skill I've ever really developed. "How ironic?"

There's another pause. "So..." she says. "Was there something you wanted to talk about?"

"Sorry. I mean, it's really hard to mourn the worst relationship in the world, but sorry. I guess. Not that I'd put it past him, but he stopped telling me about his, um, 'conquests' a really long time ago. I thought he was just a regular, monogamous douchebag. Like, a huge soul-crushing one, though."

"Since when do you believe in souls?" She does a weird, snorty laugh thing.

"God, who would sleep with him, anyways?"

"Thanks."

"Oh. Right. Sorry?"

"Good save, Werner."

Ha! She couldn't be that sarcastic if she was still mad at me. Maybe this conversation can be saved yet. I decide it's best if we make a clean break from the Jeff topic. "I'm sorry for going crazy before, too."

"Are you still going crazy?"

"It's hard to tell. If I am, I'm doing a pretty good job of hiding it from myself."

"That's all I ask."

"You ever coming home again?"

"Thanksgiving break is in a couple weeks. Think you can survive until then?"

"It'll be tough. Will you call me every single day?"

"No, I don't think so. I have classes you know."

"I highly doubt that."

"We're not talking about you, Mr. Dropout."

"I'm on a leave of absence! Actually, though, they might have kicked me out while I was dead."

"What was that? I couldn't hear you over all the crying."

"I believe the scientific term is 'meowing.'"

"I wasn't talking about the cat."

"You're the devil."

"And yet you keep calling."

"Pocket dial, actually. Total mistake. I keep forgetting to delete your number." I probably should say something better. What, though? Confess my undying affection? Ask her out on a date? Or just hold the phone to my ear in awkward silence while she waits for me to say something.

"I've got to go now. I'll see you in two weeks."

"Yeah. It was good to finally talk to you. Bye."

Click. The phone stays next to my ear for another mile or two.

### Chapter 102

The way I figure it, where Pat is is where the rest of my "comrades" are. He's too much of a control freak to let a project like this too far out of his sight. So I figure I'll take them all on, grand finale style, at the same damn time. But not yet. Something that large scale needs preparations. Mr. Hartley gave me some important information before he made me kill him. It takes some research to fill the most gaping of the holes. Decommissioned by the Department of Defense in the late 80s, Homeland Security's unnamed sub-organization opened it back up shortly after their inception, in early 2002. In the 80s it was a part training facility, part R&D center for military grade subsonic technology by the name of Holton Applications Laboratory, HAL. I can't find the name Hamlin associated with it anywhere, no matter how I try to spell it, but I do learn a thing or two about the Pied Piper for my efforts. Sounds like the facilities are about right. The website gives a town for HAL, but no address. Don't want to draw attention to themselves, I suppose.

Thankfully, the lab shows up in one of those sets of internet satellite photos. It's surrounded by woods on all sides. A single, two-lane access road leads to it from town, it's about a two mile stretch with no other outlets. There's a checkpoint halfway down the road, then another at the end, by the parking lot. The whole place is surrounded by a fence, probably very tall and electrified or barbed or something. The parking lot is decent-sized, but the facility itself is small. A building at the front, the only gap in the fence, an office building behind it and two strange looking warehouse buildings, one big and one small. There's a round thing that I assume is the silo, and plenty of empty space inside the fence. Seems to me like half the place has been demolished. I spend some time wondering how old this picture is. The terrain around the lab is decent, hilly, with the biggest hill sitting off to the west of the fence entrance, covered in trees. Looks like that's where I'll have to perch for my recon. As long as they don't have any cameras in the trees I should be fine.

I slap the laptop shut and look up at my big, shiny, muted TV. The news has been scrolling by this whole time and I haven't so much as looked up. Now that I am I'm in a knot. The President of Chile has issued an exceedingly strongly worded statement regarding the death of their Ambassador. They're demanding his body be returned for an independent autopsy. They won't be bullied into a trade agreement, nor will they tolerate American aggression. They allude to illegal covert operations being conducted by the United States government, and they are calling on the United Nations to launch an investigation and possibly impose broad sanctions. They're talking like a country that wants a piece of us. They're talking like a country that knows what the hell is going on.

### Chapter 103

I buy night vision binoculars, complete with rush shipping. While I wait for them to arrive, I use my imagination to practice. Disarming opponents, taking on multiple attackers and the like. My new brain is pretty good at making these scenarios up, like they were built in to the subsonic cocktail they pumped into my head. I'm pretty confident that I can take most threats on. Threats other than twenty-two bloodlust driven freaks at the same time, at least. Guards with guns and nightsticks and crap, on the other hand, would be no problem. My binoculars only take a few days to come, and once I get them I switch to nocturnal mode. Sleep late into the afternoon, head out to HAL the second it seems dark, drive my car as far into the woods as it will fit, climb the hill, climb a tree and watch. Watch with my binoculars, a pad of paper and a bagged lunch. It's boring as all hell, but there's plenty of time to think.

I go up there seven days in a row. The pattern is about the same every night: fourteen guards on staff at a time, not counting the guys in the check points, working in staggered eight hour shifts. That means seven or eight fresh guards every four hours. That's not great. Whatever I do, I'm going to have to be kind of quick. The good news is that I've got my pick of days. It looks like Pat comes in seven days a week; and he usually doesn't leave until eight PM. At least somebody in this government has a work ethic. The weekends look nice, the place operates on a skeleton crew, but the number of guards doesn't go down.

The small building gets very little foot traffic, the large building gets a bunch, but it dies down before six, the office building gets a medium amount concentrated in the mornings and evenings. The circle is indeed a silo, and nobody goes over there. Pat works in the office building but spends a decent amount of time in the big building. He never sets foot in the small building. Not important enough. My notes are very thorough. I've got all of my observations down, along with all the strategy that runs through my brain while I'm trying not to let myself get bored. It makes it very clear that I'm not going to be able to do this alone.

### Chapter 104

"Johnny. I need your help if you're still down. It's serious and it's dangerous. I can't really talk about it on the phone. Sorry. Just, if you're still down, show up at my apartment tomorrow morning around ten and bring as many bokkens as you can find. It's a big decision. Don't make it lightly."

I hang up the phone. My heart is pounding, even more than it usually is these days. I'm quite happy I got his voicemail, but I probably wasted my good luck on the easy call. I flip the phone back open and dial again. My heart speeds up. It rings four times, then silence. My heart sinks. "What the hell do you want?"

"Help, Jeff. I need your help."

"Go die. Please."

"You said that even if I killed your mother, you'd still have my back. True blue, you said."

"Then you fucked my girlfriend and tried to kill me."

"I never did anything with Chelsea, and if I'd tried to kill you, you'd be dead." Maybe I should be nicer, but Jeff makes it so damn hard.

"Fuck you."

"Fine. I guess you'll just have to miss out on the epic levels of bloodshed and carnage. No skin off my back. I'll find someone else."

"Fuck you."

"You already said that."

" _Fuck_ you."

"Clearly, you're interested. If you don't want me and Johnny to keep all the glory for ourselves, you're going to have to join in."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"It goes like this. One part revenge, one part massive heroism. There's this guy who's making super-berserkers, evil super-berserkers. He's going to use them for world domination or whatever, waging secret wars like a comic book puppet master overlord. He tried to do it to me, but the brainwash portion of things didn't work right. Now I'm the only one who can stop him, but he's holed up in a military base with armed guards and twenty two or twenty three super soldiers. I need help."

"You have lost your goddamn mind."

"Only a little. It doesn't mean I'm lying."

"And you got Johnny interested in this?"

"Ah, I knew you were listening."

"Don't push your luck. You're lucky I haven't hung up."

"Look, I know we're not friends any more. What I did to you was terrible, I know that, and what you did to Chelsea was plenty terrible too, and everything else about our lives has been terrible. I don't want to roll the clock back on that. I just need your help, this one time. I figured you'd want in, it's going to be awesome."

"I still hate you. And you're a liar. I don't know why I would help, even if this were a real thing."

"Because you're dying for it. You know it. We both do. Just show up tomorrow at ten with a bokken or two at Westbrook Towers, apartment six-oh-six."

"Fuck you."

I hang up the phone. Some army I'm building. Two crazy guys I haven't been close with since high school, and me, a crazy super-soldier with a superhero complex. I pull a sticky note I'd left for myself off the fridge, dropping the magnet that was holding it up onto the floor. I take a second to wonder why I had bothered with sticky notes if I was just going to use magnets anyways. My phone flips itself back open and I dial the number on the paper. Two rings. "Hello?"

"Hi, I was calling about the warehouse space."

### Chapter 105

Ten-fifteen a.m. I'm waiting at the front door of my building, my car on the street straight ahead. They're late or they're not coming. I should have known better than to rely on drunken promises. This is life or death. Even these guys aren't that stupid. I light up a cigarette, the first one I've smoked in at least a couple weeks. It doesn't taste as good as I'd hoped.

A car pulls up; a little grey beat up sedan from Japan with a totally stupid yellow stripe running all the way around it about halfway up from the ground. Johnny's car, I'd recognize it anywhere. Jeff is in the passenger's seat. I guess I'd forgotten they could still be friends without me. It makes me a little sad. They park right out front, turn off the car and pop the trunk. I walk over as they climb out. Five bokkens in the trunk, various finishes, some with taped handles, some without. A good variety, all in good shape. I gather them up. "Into the Lincoln. I'll explain on the way."

They start walking over there, Jeff claiming the front seat because he's a dick that way and he knows Johnny will let him get away with it. I toss the bundle of bokkens in my trunk with mine, an unfinished white oak number with electrical tape around the handle. I did my best to clean 001-002 off of it. Slamming the trunk shut, I spin over and hop in the driver's seat. We head towards the park. "Today, we train. These berserkers will most likely be unarmed, which is the only reason we've got a shot. In a previous encounter, I noted that they have some issues to adjusting to combat with a fast, blunt weapon with decent reach. It must have been something that was overlooked in the whole brainwashing program. It is my goal to turn you two into the perfect bokken fighters. We will train constantly. We don't have a lot of time."

"Lucky we're both already better than you are, then."

Poor, stupid, slow Jeff. "That was before. I'm miles ahead of the game now. My skills might literally blow your mind."

"Bullshit."

"Wait a few minutes. You're in for a treat."

Johnny leans up between the seats. "So your whole plan is to have us beat up a bunch of unarmed mutants with bokkens? That's a really stupid plan, man."

"Not beat up. Beat unconscious. These guys aren't human any more. They need to be put down."

"Putting down sounds like killing. We didn't sign up for killing, man." Apparently, Jeff grew a conscience at some point.

"I'm not asking you to kill anyone. But you're not really understanding what these people are. Think of them as zombies: dead to the world already, and too dangerous to be left alone." And maybe I'll tell you what's up eventually.

### Chapter 106

It's a nice, chilly fall day. The park is pretty empty. We've found a secluded spot with enough room to move around. We're standing in a triangle, Johnny and Jeff holding a bokken each, me with two bokkens at my feet. Johnny looks at me, a bit confused. "Me and Jeff first?"

"You two versus me." I smile, holding my empty hands out. "Attack whenever you're ready."

They both approach me slowly. Johnny looks a little more confused now. "Are you planning on picking up your bokkens?"

"I'll pick them up when you prove I need them. Hit me. Don't hold back or you'll get dropped."

Johnny is lightning fast and Jeff is pretty strong, but they both waste so much motion. I tell myself over and over, defense only. They're not good enough for aggression yet. It takes them a bit to actually start going full speed against me, then things get fun. I'm blocking swings with my forearms and palms, ducking, jumping and backpedaling. They can't touch me, not even close. I catch a stab from Jeff with my left hand and a slash from Johnny in my right, hold the two bokkens out straight and swing myself under them.

Jeff gets creative; he drops the bokken, pushes forward and takes a swing at my face with his fist. Way too slow. I duck down, push forward, then stand up. Jeff gets dumped over my back. Johnny grabs the handle of the bokken I'm holding and I pivot, but Jeff grabs my foot. I stumble ever so slightly, and Johnny kicks me in the ribs. I let go of both bokkens, jerk my leg free and backpedal. "Very clever. You two planned that one."

Jeff is up in an instant, Johnny passes him a bokken and the battle begins again. We go at it for hours, with brief breaks for wind catching. They learn the patterns, grow more efficient, and learn to use their numbers against me more and more. It's not huge progress, but it's visible. The whole first day I stay unarmed and on the defensive. The second day I start taking shots at them. It takes them two days after that to learn to defend themselves.

We take day four off to fend off exhaustion and muscle pain. There's no buddy aspect to our training sessions. We talk a little trash, but there's no real small talk, and by and large it's business. Day five I pick up a bokken for the first time. I give them a six hour long beating that they'll never forget. Day six they show a little more resistance. Day six is Thanksgiving. We take day seven off. I don't tell them why.

### Chapter 107

I leave Chelsea a voicemail with directions to my apartment. I try not to sound too desperate. She arrives early in the morning and I buzz her up. I've got a whole day set aside for her. I open my door and stand in the hall, watching her come off the elevator. I guess I'm a little impatient.

She smiles genuinely when she sees me. "You didn't need to flag me down, I'm perfectly capable of reading apartment numbers on my own."

"I greet all of my guests in the hallway. It's the new cool thing to do."

She walks past me, into my apartment. "That'd be a good excuse if there was a chance that you'd be aware of the 'new cool thing', or that you ever had a guest other than me."

"Way to make fun of me for having a dead family and no sane friends. That's classy."

"I'm not your friend?"

"Did I say that?"

"You're mean."

I close the door to the apartment. She seems to like the place. I feel like I should offer a tour, but that seems a little strange. It's not like there's much to see. I only own about seven things. Makes it easier to stay clean. "I'll have you know that I'm a very nice young man. All the old ladies say so."

Chelsea smirks and keeps giving herself a tour. Crispy is staring at her from on top of the fridge. Chelsea hasn't noticed her yet. I walk over towards the fridge.

"Right. Whatever. Anything new and exciting going on in your life?"

Crispy jumps down onto my shoulders. The claws hurt, and I breathe in through my teeth to keep from tossing her. "Well. I've got a cat. We're totally BFF. Also, I'm rich beyond my wildest dreams thanks to three fat insurance checks, my inheritance and some sort of settlement from some lawsuit I don't remember. I figure I can live in luxury for a decade or two without working. Care to join me?"

She walks over and pets the cat perched on my shoulders. Crispy indicated approval by purring and clawing me. "Was that a proposal?"

I swallow. Not quick enough to respond to that one.

Sensing my lack of wit, Chelsea continues the conversation for me. "No, thanks anyways. I think I'll finish college."

"I've been thinking of going back."

She was walking over to the couch, but that stops her. "What?"

"To school, not like to war or anything. It'd only take like a year and a half to graduate. I could start again next fall. You know?"

She takes a seat on the couch and waves me over. I deposit Crispy on the counter and start walking over. "I think that's a great idea. Really. You've had such an awful year. It's a good time to start over."

I've got a pit in my stomach. Just being around Chelsea makes me feel guilty. I wish I could tell her, but she can never know. A little bit slips out anyways. "I'm sorry, Chelsea." I sit down next to her, flopping over a little.

"What for?"

"Everything. I've done everything wrong. I can't even tell you. But I'm so sorry."

"Nate. You don't have anything to apologize for. I was wrong before. You are a nice guy."

"No, I'm not. I'm worse than you ever thought. I just...I'm so selfish. But I'll get better."

She puts a hand on my back and rubs. Somewhere inside I have an instinct to pull away, but suddenly I'm too tired. There's no way to purge this guilt. It's mine forever. And I'm spreading it. Their guilt is my guilt too. What the hell am I doing? This plan is so damn stupid. I'm getting them killed or I'm making murderers.

"Don't worry about it, Nate. There's plenty of time. You'll start over, just like you said. It's going to be okay."

I put an arm around her waist without thinking about it. She doesn't recoil. I put my other arm around the front. She looks at me. She looks nervous. We're so close. I lean in. Just one kiss–as light as the last one–as perfect as the last one, but she pulls away just before we make contact, out of my arms and stands up.

"I can't, Nate. Not now. Just...."

My face burns. I can hear the blood pumping in my neck. I'm an idiot. I've been an idiot for so long. I said I'd go back to school. Like that was supposed to make her swoon. Smart guy, can't tell the difference between a friend and a girlfriend. Chelsea is silent, just standing there. I'm staring at the floor. If I wanted sex I should have left Jess alive. I don't know what I want. I'm screwing everything up. "Sorry. I'm sorry. For everything." Of course you don't want to kiss your ex-boyfriends loser ex-best friend. Idiot.

"Don't be. Really. Maybe, I don't know. Just don't feel bad about it. I just can't. Breaking free from him just took so much...."

"I'm not Jeff."

"I know that. You're so much better. I just can't. Someday, maybe. We'll see."

"Right. I'll see you later, I guess."

"Don't be mad at me."

"I'm not. Just please go."

She sighs and walks out slowly, closing the door behind her. My day is shot. Out come the beers.

### Chapter 108

We train for another week and a half, during which I upgrade to two bokkens and sprinkle in some offense. They learn quickly, and so do I. I try not to take my frustrations out on the two of them. Finally, day eighteen rolls around at the same spot in the park. I pick up my two bokkens and look at the two of them. "You guys are almost ready. I'm going full speed this time. It's going to be intense. Try not to get your asses beat too badly."

They put their sticks up. We upgraded in wood quality a few days ago. Nice, expensive bokkens that never seem to break and have as much pop in them as baseball bats with none of the balance issues. Hickory. The weight feels great. I charge. I land three shots almost immediately, dodge swings, land another, roll, block, hit, block. "Come on! You're telegraphing everything! They'll see it a mile away. Think like there's twenty of me, and I'm out to tear your throats out!"

We go all day. I own them less and less as time passes. The human mind can become deadly efficient with the right prompting. In the late afternoon they even land a few decent shots between the two of them. They're good. Better than I thought they'd get, especially in such a short time. I'm better than I thought I'd get. I'm in even better shape than I was in boot camp. Bokken fighting is an amazing aerobic workout. At the very least, we'll have those lunatics sucking wind, then we can strike.

At night, I let myself wonder if it's enough. Two normal guys and one super-soldier with sticks, no matter how well practiced, can't take down twenty two super-berserkers. The math just isn't right. I'm leading a suicide mission. I wonder if Jeff and Johnny know. The news is on, and I'm half listening to the anchor talk about the growing anti-American, anti-trade agreement coalition in South America, led by the impassioned Chilean President. They're seriously angry, ready to for a fight, but they don't what a fight will entail if I don't make my move. In my apartment, by myself, I look over the supplies I've assembled over the past few weeks. We're going tomorrow. I've had all the waiting I can stand.

It's a good thing there's plenty of vacant warehouse space in this city. It's a good thing I'm rich.

### Chapter 109

Six a.m., my apartment. Three piles of gear are laid out on the counter. Jeff and Johnny are still working on waking up. I haven't slept. In each pile of supplies rests two fresh hickory bokkens, handles taped for improved grip, a dozen lengths of rope, a set of car keys, portable radio, folding knife, a dozen handkerchiefs, a bag of those orange ear plug things that expand when you put them in and a roll of duct tape. Johnny gets Hartley's keycard and a note that says 1477131118. I get "my" handgun. Just in case. There's a bullet in the chamber. My gun. Hopefully I won't need it, but hopefully it's good for shooting people other than me.

"I trust you both know the whole plan, inside and out?"

Johnny is pacing. Jeff is looking at me hard. He is not amused. "We're not your employees, man."

"There's no room for improvisation, Jeff."

"Yeah, yeah. I get the plan. Our part is easy enough."

"I don't want to get you involved more than I have to. It's dangerous. Seriously."

"Aren't we helping with the most dangerous part?" Simple Johnny.

"Kind of. It's complicated. And long. You guys know what to do, right?" They nod, more grudgingly than I'd like, but they nod. "Right. Wait for the signal."

"Which is?"

"You're going to be blindly charging into dangerous territory. What do you think the signal is?"

"Oh. Ok."

"That said; please join me in a drink before we depart."

Johnny cocks his head. "I'm all for getting messed up normally, but this doesn't seem like the time."

I pull the fridge open. "Not a beer. A drink." I withdraw cans, one at a time, from the fridge. "This is what we'll be drinking."

Johnny gives the beverages a look of disbelief. "Surge? Wasn't that discontinued like ten years ago?"

"Yeah, but...."

"So it's got to be hella expired by now."

"It's in a can. Cans don't go bad."

Jeff knocks one of the cans over. "Forget that, man. You know they make energy drinks now with like ten times as much caffeine, right?"

I stand the can back up carefully. This is not going as I'd hoped. "Look, I spent a lot of time and money tracking this down on the internet. You punks are gonna drink it."

Johnny looks at me like I'm crazy. "You ever heard of Vault? It's the same soda, just with loads more caffeine. They re-released it."

I'm getting pissed. "I was aware of that. I sampled it and found it wholly inadequate for my needs. Look. Johnny. What soda inspired you to make a website devoted to overly cute anime character animations with eight bit music looping in the background?"

"...Surge."

"Right. And Jeff: when we got kicked out of the grocery store, and avenged ourselves by dropkicking whole roasted chickens onto the roof, what beverage had us up at that ungodly hour?"

"Surge, but...."

"No buts. This was our balls-to-the-wall drink of choice ten years ago, and it's going to be our balls-to-the-wall drink now. Deal with it. And drink the hell up."

### Chapter 110

Just shy of the start of the access road we park my car and the two big rental vans. I leave Jeff with the keys. "Pull onto the access road, but idle just short of the second bend. Give me fifteen minutes, then pull around. If the gate is open, pull through and stop. Wait ten more minutes, then pull into the parking lot. Find three adjoining spaces. Double back and get the second van, then wait for my signal."

Jeff rolls his eyes. "We know the plan, Nate. We knew it the last time you explained it, too."

"Well, I'm a little nervous, okay? This is kind of a big deal." A security truck passes us, heading towards Hamlin. Relief guards. Good timing. "Just under four hours to get this done. Wish me luck."

"Fuck you." That's pretty much been every third sentence from Jeff for the past month. But it sounds less angry now.

"Yeah. Thanks. Bye." I slink up the mile hike to the first gate. No one sees me. I skirt the woods once I see the first station. Easy. There's one guard in the shack and he's not looking. I sneak up, stay low and out of sight, and wait for the guard truck to pull back up. My boy isn't switching, he just opens the gate for the truck to exit. I let it pass out of sight, then round the shack to the entrance door. He's still not looking. He's watching a monitor. There's a camera further down the road. From over his shoulder I can see the screen, and I memorize the angle so I'll see it coming.

The takedown itself is quick. He never knows what hits him. From the entrance to his little booth I deliver one kick to the jaw, he falls, I grab his handcuffs and lock them around a bolted down table leg. I pocket his radio, tape his mouth, plug his ears and slap a blindfold on him. When he wakes up he'll think he's still asleep. Other than the pain in his face. And if they start talking about me I'll know. I open the gate and leave it that way, then head up the road further, in the woods, out of sight of the camera.

Guard two looks almost the same as guard one. Maybe they're twins. He gets the exact same treatment, except this time I just take his radio batteries. It's nice and easy. I check my watch. Six fourteen. They'll pass the first gate soon. Hope nobody is planning on leaving work for a bit. I head on foot into the parking lot, which is largely empty. Thank God for five o'clock quitting times.

I walk across the parking lot, nice and casual. If I made it this far, clearly I'm supposed to be here. The fence is nine or ten feet tall, with that round razor wire on the top that basically cuts you to ribbons if you so much as look at it. Scaling is not an option. I step into the little hut that's built like a bomb shelter. Three guards inside, metal detectors and one of those badass revolving doors made of bars. The guards eye me. I have two bokkens sticking out of my coat and a big backpack on. I show them a big, fake smile. The metal detector beeps. I pretend I didn't hear it. Two guards cross over into the middle area of the room and approach me.

"Sir. Please empty your pockets and pass through the detectors again. We will also need to see your credentials if you intend to enter the facility."

I stop, turn around and stop again. They wait for me to do something, I can almost hear them reminding themselves not to make assumptions. I roundhouse one in the head. He drops. The other close one gets an elbow to the temple immediately, before he can react. The third, who's still on the far side of the turnstile, reaches for his radio instead of his gun, fumbling a bit. He's scared. I pull a bokken off my back and throw it straight on, no spin, and it clips him right between the eyes. Three unconscious guards in just a second or two, and I can't help but be proud of how good I am at this. I tie the hands of the two closest to me behind their respective backs, tape their mouths and lock them in a closet off to the side of the main room.

After that I eye the turnstile. There's a good eighteen inches of space on top of it. Plenty for an athletic guy like me. I take a running start and use the bars as hand and foot holds to fling myself over. My side aches a little bit already, but nothing too bad. Guard number three gets tied up like the others and shoved in a big locker on one of the walls. I dust my hands off and check the time. Six-twenty-three, and nearly a third of the guards are incapacitated. Going at a good clip. I consider turning off power to the scary door, but they've got a keycard, they should be able to handle themselves. I crack my knuckles and head out into the lab proper.

The place is like a ghost town. No one is walking any of the little paths, which is lucky for them. It's cold out, but not that cold. I take four hundred and seventy three quick steps, to the door of the small building. Could have done it with my eyes closed. Need to clear it, just in case, even though I know what's inside. The door is locked, but it's a shoddy super trailer turned into a permanent building and it's made out of crappy sheet metal. I kick it open, and the sound isn't quite bad enough to wake the dead. I listen to my new radio for a few seconds to see if I've triggered any alarms, but no one seems to care about a little bang out in the darkness.

There's a light switch right inside the door. I flick it. An emaciated woman is staring at me through a plexiglass wall. "Thirty four, I presume." I get silence and a hard stare from her. I know I'm right, anyways. Nothing else would make sense. "Pleased to meet you." She's not saying anything. I don't know if she even can. But I talk a lot as a matter of habit. "Is there any human left in there? What's your name?" No reaction, just eyes locked on mine, reading me. "Please, just say something. Just give me some indication that you're still a person."

She doesn't move. Damn it. I don't want to do it. She hasn't done anything to me. But this isn't about me. It's for everyone, and I can't leave even one behind. They'd just use her like they use the rest of us. Trying to convince myself I'm doing a good thing all the while, I find the conduit that's bringing power to the cage and put my knife through it. The lock depowers, and I slam the door open.

### Chapter 111

She's so damn fast. She charges through the door and grabs for my bokkens. I lean them up out of her reach and get a hand on my throat for my trouble. I can live without a little air. I pin her other hand back with my right and pummel her with my left. Her grip doesn't falter. She's not feeling it. I need to cause some actual damage or she'll never let go. I rip her hand off my throat and she knees me in the solar plexus. I'll need air at some point and she knows it. She's on my back in an instant, going for another choke. I drop straight back to the floor. Now it's her that can't catch enough breath. It helps. Rolling over, I crack her across the face with an elbow for good measure. It's like punching a robot: my hand is hurt than she is.

I get to my side and grab her chin. She's thrashing hard, but not hard enough. Maybe she's not even really trying. The other one gave me a hell of a lot more trouble than she is. Maybe I shouldn't feel so disappointed about it. "I'm so sorry. I wish I could help you." She steps it up a bit, but I've got her pinned beyond escape. I snap her neck and the thrashing stops. She's emaciated, pale, sick looking. Her eyes are sunken. Her hair is thin, bald spots here and there. I did the right thing. She was in a bad way. I stand up and dust myself off. "Please don't hold this against me. This is better for you. I think."

There's no reason to hide the body, at this time of night no one will come this way. I head out of the small building; time slows down to half speed. It's still empty outside, maybe emptier. Maybe everyone's gone. Maybe even Pat. I cross the road. The silo is twenty four feet north, thirty six feet west of me. There's never any foot traffic in this part of the lab, at least there wasn't three weeks ago, so I cover the distance in a run. I'm not entirely clear on what I'm going to find in there, but I'm damn sure it'll be nasty.

### Chapter 112

The silo looks like it actually was a silo in the before time, the long, long ago. As such it has a wooden door. Whether or not it's locked doesn't really matter if it's wooden and hasn't gotten much attention for two hundred years. I kick it practically to splinters. Suddenly I'm surrounded by noise, animal noise. Screaming.

The silo contains one big, circular room. It's dark, but my eyes adjust quickly. One of the super powers that goes under the radar, I suppose. All around the perimeter, except right next to the door, are cages. Heavy duty dog crates, I would call them. They're filled with monkeys and the monkeys are screaming at me. I'm frozen in place. The exposed skin on their faces is coated in black trails. They're screaming and shaking their cages. Above the first row of crates is a big metal shelf with another row of crates on top of it. There are dogs in those. Pitbulls. They're howling and throwing themselves against the metal. The crates are bolted against the walls. Above that row is another shelf, and above that tiny cages filled with rats. I'm sure if the place wasn't quite so deafening I could hear them squeaking their little brains out, too.

Ahead of me and off to the left one of the monkeys collapses and stops screaming. Probably gave itself a heart attack from freaking out so bad. It's around then I notice that maybe a third of the animals in the place are dead, they were probably dead when I got there. There are bowls of food in many of the cages, rotten and infested with flies and untouched. The whole place reeks of death. There is a level of evil going on here that I could not anticipate. I can't let these creatures go, they'd probably kill everyone in the state. I can't kill them all, even if I had time they'd probably manage to overpower me with sheer animalian madness. If I had brought some gasoline or something this might be different. I bite my lip and pray a little, in my head, that my visit gives as many of them heart attacks as possible. Nothing deserves to live like this.

### Chapter 113

I turn on my heels and leave, slamming the door shut as I go. Something inside forces me to whisper "I'm sorry" into the splintered wooden piece of crap that barely stays shut. The screaming isn't dying down even though I'm out of the room. Was it going on before I got there? Do they ever stop? I guess I see why the stupid place doesn't get any foot traffic. It's hell on earth.

Due west eleven hundred feet almost to the inch is the larger building. Easy. As my mind switches gears and tries to block out the trauma of what I just saw, I take a moment to hope the guys are in position. It seems to take an hour to get to the place, but I make it and knock. A guard opens the door. When he tries to say something I bash his head into the metal door-frame. He goes unconscious in a hurry, so I drag him outside. His hands get cuffed around a pipe on the side of the building no one has any reason to visit. Tape over his mouth ensures he won't give them one.

Back to the door, it's still open. In I walk. It's the big, open, concrete room from Ian's video. I'm in a barred off office area. There's another on the opposite side of the building, but it's empty. Twenty bloodthirsty maniacs are locked in that big cell together, and they know I'm there. My new brain does a quick, involuntary count. No Ian. That makes things more reasonable. Incoherent yelling rises up.

One shouts "Fiend! Run from the fiend!"

Another "You you you devil. The devil returns...."

Still another, "Your flesh will be our meat! You exist to die!"

They sound almost exactly like the monkeys, except in a pathetic mockery of English. They're people. I have to keep telling myself they're people. A set of keys sits on the desk in my new office. I pull out my radio and press the talk button. "Time's up."

"Let's do this." Johnny's voice chimes back through the radio almost instantly.

A second passes. The radio clicks, and Jeff comes over loud and clear. " _Leeroy Jenkins!_ "

Good boys. After two minutes I can hear them charging across the asphalt outside. They know where to go. I grab the keys, find one that fits in the lock and rest it there. The double trainees come running through the door. I turn the key. Santana throws the gate open immediately, pushing me back, and charges through. He gets a bokken across the forehead and drops like a stone. I work my way around the gate while the Gay Republican gets a thorough beat down trying to escape. The door is a perfect choke point and series two doesn't seem to be much smarter about it than the 001s were. I drag the bodies from the doorway, Jeff ties them up, and Johnny menaces at the gate. Only Mr. Cosby is dumb enough to try a third time, and he gets knocked out and tied up for the effort.

The rest have gotten wise to the strategic advantage and hang back in the cage. Oh well. Their numbers are a little less overwhelming now. My brain likes the math of this scenario, especially the no Ian part, much better. I try not to think about the throbbing in my side, chest and arm, nor the ringing in my ears. We each stand in front of the doorway, dual bokkens in hands, catching our breath. I let a few seconds pass beyond what I need out of consideration for those that are still human.

"You guys ready? This is the real deal now."

Johnny says nothing. He's locked in like the crazy bastard that he is. Jeff stares through the bars at the seventeen berserkers that are still standing. "I hate you, Nate. You know that?"

I smile. "Balls to the wall, man. Balls to the wall."

Into the fray we go, me first and then the other two. Our opponents forget to utilize the choke point, probably because they don't have any weapons and no real capacity for team strategy. I plow right through Benny, glance back over to make sure my backup isn't being murdered, turn back and Mackenzie has caught one of my bokkens. I crack him across the face with the other and he releases, then somebody blindsides me, tackling me to the ground. I bury the handle of a bokken in the base of his skull and find myself scurrying out from under an unconscious maniac.

Johnny yells something from somewhere far away. He's getting backed up against the wall, the quarters getting too close for a decent slash. I shove to my feet, but Mackenzie sticks his fat body in the way of my rescue attempts. I scream incoherently in his face, which seems to make him hesitate. They really are afraid of me. Why? Lowering my shoulder, I drive forward, into the fat man. Beyond him, there's a massive wood-on-flesh crack. Someone just got concussed. I hope Johnny is safe. Mackenzie digs in, stops me from taking him to the ground. I shove a bokken under his arm, jump around him and make a tight headlock out of bokkens. It'll take too long to make him pass out this way, though. I'm wasting some serious time.

Someone rabbit punches me. I kick straight back. What I hit gives like a stomach. He catches my foot. Mackenzie wobbles. I pull the two together, as hard as I can. Mackenzie goes down hard, I go down soft, leg is freed. Leg kicks my blurry attacker in the crotch. He doubles over and takes a bokken across the face. No time to assess the situation, I'm back on my feet, running towards Jeff. I crack his attacker in the head from behind. He gives me a dirty look.

Sucking air something fierce, the muscles in my stomach burning like I never let them heal properly, I turn and charge the next closest guy. Swing a bokken at a face but hit an arm. The grimace tells me something's broken. I wind up my bokken for another swing and the end falls off. Makes me wish I'd found something even pricier than hickory. I drop that stump and stab my current target in the ribs with the other. He stumbles back; I spin and crack him again, catching both his other hand and his face. He goes down like a brick. I switch bokken hands and pause for just a second. We're doing well. Scanning the room, I lock eyes with one of the few supers still standing. BJ. I tell myself I'm not going to enjoy this, but it's a lie.

I'm charging him before I know it, hurdling anybody that shows up in my path. He just stands there, staring, coated in lines as black as night. I swing the bokken half-heartedly. He catches it. I punch him in the face and let go of my weapon. Now he's armed and I'm not. I duck a swing that's clearly not expecting the weight of the bludgeon to be concentrated so heavily in the handle and rock his jaw with an uppercut. It's like playing an old hockey video game, whoever knows the uppercut wins. Now I'm too close for the bokken to be worth using and he knows it. I wrap both of his arms up with mine, locking them between my armpits and elbows.

Both of his upper arms are bent, healed wrong when I broke them last time. He probably didn't get any medical attention worth a damn. I almost feel bad for the man that murdered my parents. I butt his nose with my forehead. His knees wobble, but he doesn't go down. He looks into my eyes and I pause. I could swear his face looks better. Lighter.

"I'm...sorry."

Maybe I imagined it, maybe it was just what I wanted to hear, but maybe there's still a human in there. It's good to see, even in BJ. I give him another head butt, and he drops to the ground. I turn, catch sight of one more baddy standing, tear ass over and bash his head into the wall. He falls. Jeff and Johnny are already tying up the bodies, starting with anyone who's still got a little movement in him.

I catch my breath. "You guys got it from here? There's a lot of them."

Jeff stands up, leaving Mr. Cosby's wrists half tied. "For the last time, man, we know the plan. Get on with your part."

I sigh. An asshole is an asshole, no matter the situation. I kind of wonder if I would have had it in me to do what these guys just did, if I didn't have my advantages. No point in dwelling. "Right. Sorry. Just make sure you get my bokkens out of here. Be thorough. And give me my keys." Johnny pulls them out of his pocked and tosses them over. My hand catches them on its own and stuffs them in my pocket. "Thanks. And don't come back for me. I'll call you some time."

### Chapter 114

I'm going to hurt so bad tomorrow. Still feeling the rabbit punch; I probably will be for a week, and that's not even thinking about the mass of shredded scar tissue that's floating around in my abdomen. I check my watch. It's seven-twenty, there's plenty of time before the new shift of guards arrive, not much before Pat leaves. If he's still even here. He must be; that's the way things work. The office building, the only multi-floor building on the site, has ten guards posted in it, because that's where they keep the big brains and the big paychecks. I'm not carrying bokkens any more. I head around the big building I'm leaving and nick the security badge from the guard I left tied to the pole. I throw the badge on to make myself look more official.

The office building is twelve hundred feet away, which I close at basically a dead run. It's a big place and I need to be sure I have a second chance to find Pat if I guess wrong. Logic dictates that an ego like his would yearn for the top floor, but you can never be too careful. Not when you're so close to the end. The front door is unlocked and leads me into an open lobby that looks like it froze in time at some point in the seventies. Even the guard sitting at the little kiosk in the lobby has a seventies porno mustache. I calmly walk over the desk, at least half obscuring the badge of his injured coworker with my coat. "Excuse me, I'm looking for the director. Has he left for the evening?"

He eyes me. I'm sweaty as hell and likely covered in tiny droplets of other people's blood, my face and hands covered with black trails that must look a little familiar to a guy in his position. I can't believe he's not reacting more strongly. "Haven't seen him leave yet. You want me to page him?"

I shake my head. "No thanks. He knows I'm coming, I'm just running a little late."

He folds open a notebook sitting in front of him and keeps eyeing me. "Uh huh. And who are you again? For our records."

"Harvey Petranko, health and safety." He starts to write. I propel myself over the desk and kick him in the face with both feet. Down he goes. I tape his mouth, plug his ears, slap a blindfold on him and tie him down under the desk. I'm getting disturbingly good at this. I position him under the desk obscured enough that you could only see him from behind it. No one would see him by accident. He's got a directory on his desk, which points me to Pat's office, fourth floor. The smooth jazz pumping out of the speakers melds with the screaming in my head, but I'm calm. Calculating. The berserker has no power over me.

The elevator dings and the doors open into a big hallway. Two guards sit at the end, on opposite sides of a heavy looking door. The lights are off in all the rooms I can see as I walk down the hall. Nobody wants to stay late on a wintry Friday. One of the guards hails me after I pass the halfway point in the hall.

"Hey! What's your business up here?"

I extend my hand while walking, as if I could shake his from ten yards away. "Harvey Petranko, health and safety. The director is expecting me in his office about two hours ago."

The speaking guard stands up. I've almost closed the distance, almost rendered the guns moot. "Take a seat in that conference room," he waves to a door on his left. "We'll page him."

"If it's all the same to you, I'd like to see him in his office."

He scoffs. "Nobody goes in there, kid."

"With all due respect, sir, Mr. Hall specifically stated that I should meet him _in his office_ , not in a conference room adjoining it."

The second guard stands. I'm stopped right in front of them, within arm's length. The talker talks. He sounds sarcastic. "With all due respect, _kid_ , Mr. Hall must have it in for you. Walking through that door is a death sentence, pure and simple. You're welcome to give it a try, if you're feeling frisky, or you can sit your ass down in that conference room and I can call the director _out_ to speak to you."

I clear my throat and try to look sheepish. I'm not a very good actor. "Terribly sorry. No offense was intended."

He nods, suddenly cured of his hatred for me, and reaches for the phone on the wall. I bash his face into it. The other guard points his gun, but he's nice and slow and close. I put one hand on the barrel and use it as a fulcrum to crack him in the face with the butt. He goes down quickly.

"Again, terribly sorry, you guys. I hope you're ready to talk yourselves up during the investigation. There had to be at least ten of me. We jumped you. In the bathroom. Whatever."

I yell at myself mentally for not being more clever. I should be spouting off witty one liners like it's my job at this point. I must be nervous. I drag the two guards into the conference room and close all the blinds. I tie them together, use a leftover length of rope to make a spider web of the tables and chairs, all tied together, then tied to the guards. I tape their mouths, all that good stuff, and shove the knot over where they can't possibly reach it. "Don't worry, guys. They'll find you. In the morning."

I stand up, which is harder than it should be, and dust myself off. I'm getting stiff already. Maybe I'm getting old. I click the lock on the conference room door and pull it shut. The door leading to Pat's office is big, heavy, and locked. My heart is in my neck making friends with my breakfast. I'm starving. I can't do this. Damn it. I can't open that door. I thought this would go on forever. I'm not ready to finish things. I'm not strong enough. Pat. This isn't about me. It's him. It's always been him. He's got to die. That's the whole point.

I kick the lock out.

### Chapter 115

The door creaks open. There's no office on the other side. More like a secretary's station or something, with another door at the end. I see immediately why it's death to open this door. Ian's crouched in the back right corner. It looks like he's eating something. The safeguards. Pat's the only one who can pass through this room without getting torn to shreds. I step through the doorway. He stops what he's doing, turns his head. His face is twisted, almost bestial.

He sounds just like he did in that bunker. "My friend? You've come?"

I close the door behind me, slowly. The battered lock partially engages. It'd take a little effort to get in or out. "That's right, buddy. I'm here to help." I creep across the floor slowly. He stays in his crouch.

"Did you do it? Did you kill them all?" He sounds excited.

I shake my head slowly. "There's one left. Right through that door."

" _FAILURE!_ " He's across the floor in a fifth of a second; I barely muster the reflex to pivot away from the mad charge, and it hurts like hell to do it. He grabs my shirt and jerks me forward, I take a swing up at his face but he blocks it and grabs my wrist, twisting it. I can't be hurt and I can't be tired, not for this part. I've visualized this fight too many times to lose it.

"You don't have to do this! Let me help you, Ian! I'll kill Pat, and then I'll help you. You'll be a person again. Free." He wrenches my arm down; I put a hand on his chin and push him back. He lets go of my wrist and there's no time to react–the side of his arm hits my neck, knocking out a cough, then hooks around and jerks my face down to the ground.

"You can't kill Patrick. You'd have to kill me. We can't kill me. Don't you see? If we can't kill me, we can't kill Patrick. _FAILURE_." I roll over as he tries to get on my back, but he's got my arm, which he jerks out of the socket. Christ. I'm beginning to think I _can't_ kill him. I kick up and back, mostly get rib, and he grabs my ankle. I kick his hand with my other foot and he catches that ankle. I jerk down and pull my body up with the most abdominal effort any human has ever exerted in the history of abs and punch him in the face with my good hand.

He drops my feet. I fall hard. If my arm wasn't dislocated before it is now. He pounces at me and I kick him away again, then scramble back. He's not slowing down, not like I am. "Please stop, Ian. You don't hate me. You can control this. I'll help you. Don't make me kill you." He laughs. It's a pause in the onslaught at least. I prioritize my arm over my footing and pop it back into place. It hurts like hell. It was a waste of time. I should know better than to choose anything over footing. That arm is not going to be much use for weeks.

I push up towards a standing position and get a boot to the face for my trouble. Falling back to the ground, the lights in my head are blinking on and off. I should have stood when I had the chance. I'm screwed. I'd be screwed if I was on my feet. He's something, something more than I am. He's a weapon. I roll away from a stomp that would have shattered my rib cage, maybe killed me. I land on my knees in a crouch and block about half of the kick to the ribs that follows. It didn't shatter anything, but cracks are forming. I grab the foot, hold onto it tight and dive forward, under him, jerking the leg up as high as I can reach. The goal is to dump him on his face.

He catches himself with both hands before he hits the ground. The crazy son of a bitch. I throw myself on his back and he holds my weight up like he's doing pushups. My good hand gets two punches in on his face before he switches to single arm support and elbows me in the side. It's enough to shake me off. I grab his shirt with my bad hand, pull myself back over and launch the good fist at his jaw. He pops up out of the way, hauling me up with him. I pull hard into a headlock that hurts me a lot more than it hurts him.

As I'm swinging wildly at his face and catching flesh about half the time he wraps his arms around me and punishes my battered ribs. He's not feeling pain. He's not of this earth. I punch him in the throat and he seems to feel it, letting up the bear hug enough for me to struggle free. While I'm thinking something finally went right he drops to the ground like it was all part of the plan and punches my knee like a hammer hits an egg. Stumbling back, I work to catch my footing and he sweeps it out from under me. I'm on my back again. He stands. Every part of my body aches. I can barely breathe and I've only got one hand. My knee is screaming louder than the screaming in my head or the monkeys in the silo, bad enough to drown out the ever worsening pain coming from my left side. He doesn't look like he hurts at all, and I've landed a few good shots. He's better than me. He's the real Angel of Death. I'm dead.

Ian takes his time, knowing I'm not getting any stronger. Something is digging into my ass. The gun. Sweet mother of hell, I've got a gun. I hold myself up with my bad arm, which practically kills me, and whip the gun out. He doesn't appear to comprehend it, then after a millionth of a second he smiles. The hesitation is the only reason I get a shot off. _Bang_. One between the eyes. The room is suddenly silent. Someone must have heard that downstairs. Pat must have heard it. He's calling for help. Seven guards left in the place. I'm screwed. Stupid. My back is to his door; Ian's laid out dead in front of me. I scramble to my feet. Got to be fast.

Switching the gun into my bad hand and putting my weight on my good leg, I kick out the lock.

### Chapter 116

The door swings open. Pat is sitting on the front of his desk, perhaps fifteen feet from me, and looking right at me. There's something in his hand, like a little mp3 player, and he presses a button and places it down next to him. He looks calm, and his voice is as low and slow as ever. "I was under the impression that you did not care for firearms."

He's out of his mind. I assume there's a tone playing now, but I can't hear it, and if it's affecting me I can't feel it over the world of pain. "Sometimes you've got to do what you've got to do. Now, if you'd like, you could start begging for your life. I won't listen, but it might make you feel better."

He stands. Still as fat as ever. I find myself locked in place. I want to walk. I think I want to walk. But this can't be a signal, I can't hear them any more. I just need to move towards him, just a little, just to make sure I can.

His voice gets lower, more patronizing. "You can't touch me. You're a pawn, just like poor Mr. Kensington was. You haven't done anything that you weren't already programmed to do."

"Cocky until the end. I respect that. Your colleague, Ms. Conroy, said all the same things. You know what happened there? POW. Dead."

He begins pacing the room. "Ms. Conroy was afforded only the most rudimentary of protections. I'd imagine that you had significant issue with that, anyways. I believe that you will find yourself utterly incapable of causing harm to my person."

"Everyone around you has been taken out. All of your prototypes are dead or gone. Your sound waves don't work on me anymore. I figured that crap out weeks ago."

"Oh, did you? That's curious. I wasn't aware you had the capacity to alter the chemical composition of a human brain."

No, it's a lie. I hate him and his stone cold bluffs and his lies and his face and the fact that he's not even _sweating_. I'm watching his pulse in his neck and he really isn't afraid of me. All I have to do to scare him is _move_. "I'm going to murder you. How the hell can you be so calm?"

"I don't think you understand the situation. You have not done anything that I have not allowed you to do." He stops, turns, and walks over to me. I'm aching to lunge at him, he's so close, but my arms weigh more than my car. It's from the fight. It's because of Ian. "I own you."

"Did you plan on me killing Allen Hartley?" He missed about an eight of a step. I've got his attention and his pulse is quickening. "Yeah, that's right. The next generation is kaput."

He's right in front of my face. We don't need this conversation. I don't need to prove anything. I should end it. I can end it. I've done this before. "That is unfortunate, though in a way it helps with my cause. The more data the better."

"You really are deluded." Punch him. Shoot him. Anything. "You really think I'm going to let you out of here alive." I can't do it. I can't do anything but run my mouth. "Come back to reality, Pat. There's pie here."

He smiles and slaps me across the mouth. It stings and burns. My skin is on fire, burning worse than it ever has, but I'm frozen in time. He's winning. He could take me apart with his bare hands if he wanted to, but he'd never stoop to that. Fat bastard. "I know exactly what's going to happen tonight, Nathan. I'm going to build an empire around you. In just a few minutes the guards will mass outside that door. They will kick it open, train their guns on you, and you will be taken prisoner. You will not resist. There is nothing you can do about this. For all your power, you will stand there and take it. They will not be gentle, but nothing they do will compare with the agony my experimentation will cause you. It will be a living hell, and it will _not_ end. Not until the next prototype, the perfect one, arrives to destroy you as you destroyed Mr. Kensington, Mr. Hartley and all of the others. I will use you, the data I extract from your carcass, and all of the others that I build in your image, to win entire wars. It's already started.

"What will you do with your last few minutes of freedom, _boy_? Insist desperately that you can 'defeat' me while it becomes clearer and clearer that you have no free will left? Will you cry? Will you shake your fist at me, at the very heavens, and try to make me feel guilty for sacrificing your worthless life to save the lives of millions? Will you just _give up_? What will it be?"

He comes to a stop right in front of me, right in my face. I can feel his halitosis on my eyes, on my pores. I'm frozen in place, staring into his eyes, hoping he'll die from the sheer weight of my hate for him. I hurt so bad, but suddenly it's all clear. He's not nearly as confident as he sounds. He doesn't want me to try. "You can't beat me, Pat. You can't beat me if I don't give up."

My good hand shoots up from my side and wraps itself around his neck. It doesn't squeeze, I can't make it. But it doesn't have to. His face goes green and his breath gets shallow. There's pounding on the door beyond the door behind me and Pat tries to say something. Half a cough comes out. I let go of him. Someone yells something from way back there. They're scared of Ian. I've got time. Pat clutches his left arm. He's having a god damn heart attack. Stupid, fat old man. He flops over on top of me. I barely have the capacity to get out from under him.

### Chapter 117

The pounding sharpens. They're going to knock the door free of the lock by accident if they hit it much harder. I've got to be fast, for real this time. I grab a tissue from the desk, wipe down the gun as best I can, and put Pat's soggy meat paw all over it. I leave it on the floor near his hand, but just out of reach. No sense in letting presence of mind in a semi-comatose man do me in.

I limp fast to the back of the office and open a window. There's an open dumpster close to straight down. Four floors. I climb out, no other choice left, and hang from the sill and low as I can. Cutting seven feet off the drop in my condition is worth the blinding pain in my arm. I fall. Trash is not as soft as it could be. Everything hurts. Stay conscious, Nate. Can't give up in a dumpster. My good hand takes the lead, grabs the side of the dumpster and hauls me up. I roll over the end and land on my feet. My knee doesn't buckle. I make a mental note to buy it a present.

Somewhere, deep inside, I find enough for a dead sprint to the guard bunker. Can't look behind me. I practically tackle my way through the vertical turnstile, blow through the metal detector and hit the parking lot before I stop to breathe. It's about as empty as it was before. My car is parked straight ahead. I love my car. The run starts itself back up and I'm there in seconds. It takes about half an hour for me to get my key into the door and get inside. Maybe this panic is unmerited. As long as Pat can't talk, there's no reason for anyone to think I was there. Until they start opening doors.

I start my car and start down the access road. Some son-of-a-bitch put the gate down. I put my car through it and build speed. Some son of a bitch put the second gate down too. I put my car through that, too, thanking myself for buying such a giant monstrosity of a sedan. I keep building speed. I don't know where I'm going, but I'm going to get there right the hell now. I'm on the road in town now. I pull out my cell phone and check for service. None yet. My car stops suddenly. There's a loud noise somewhere far away. The lights go out. I don't know where I am.

### Chapter 118

I'm in a bed. It's hard, but it's a bed. The smell is familiar. My right arm hurts a little. It's a dull pain. I open my eyes. A hospital. I'm not handcuffed to the bed. So I get up. My legs are shaky. A look out the window tells me it's either still dark or dark the next day. Can't be much later than that. My IV and I limp over and pick up my chart. Dislocated shoulder, fractured rib, concussion, bunch of big words about the ligaments in my knee. No internal bleeding. Nothing major. It says I was brought in following a car crash. Imagine that.

The door to my room isn't locked so, I find myself wandering the hallway a moment later. I'm still in the emergency room part of the place. I can't have been here long. So I walk. Figure I'll be discharged soon enough, might as well snoop around the rooms nearby. Empty, empty, old lady, moaning guy, empty, kid with a cast, empty, Pat. They brought Pat to the hospital. He's hooked up to machines, lots of machines, unconscious. They've got his heart beating. He'll be the only person I've ever killed in a hospital.

I grab his chart and take a look. Cardiac arrest. His heart stopped. Probably for a while. Brain damage. Damn it. He's not waking up, not ever. "That's it?"

I yelled. Now I'm crying. Stay in control, even on pain killers. Do this quietly. "You give out that easy, fat man?" Isn't that a good thing? I couldn't get him, not when I was staring him in the face and screaming at myself to take a shot. Why do I feel so cheated? "You pansy, you were scared of me. I knew it. You punked out of our epic battle. Good and evil, man." I hit his shoulder. No reaction. "Evil isn't supposed to just lie down and die." My face is burning. My blood is screaming through my veins, drowning out everything. I can't hear myself. I can feel the pulse in my eyes, under ever inch of my skin. "You think you won, don't you? Somewhere in there you're laughing. You think I'm broken." I'm not crazy. Please don't let me be crazy.

"I just kept telling myself that once I got you...once I got you...." Red. Can't see, can't hear, can't think. "But I didn't get you. You coward. I don't need to get you. You're nothing. I'm a new man. You can't beat me. You can _NEVER_ beat me." Just breathe. That's all it takes to get through this. Calm, deep breaths. "I'm not like the others. I can change. I'll reprogram myself."

A nurse walks in. I can hear her heart beat. The pain in my stomach, my leg, my shoulder, my neck, it's all starting to creep up on me, making the world feel more real. I can see the ducks on her scrubs. I can smell her shampoo. I can feel her neck snapping. But not now. No chance. I'm better than that. She speaks. She's ten miles away. "Do you know him?"

I have to talk? I don't know if I remember how. "Yeah. He...he's the reason I joined the military. He's the reason I am what I am today.'

She smiles sadly; maybe I'm a better actor than I thought. I remember smiling. "I'm very sorry for your loss, then. Maybe God brought you two together tonight to give you a chance to say goodbye."

I put us both here. I'm God. Nice to meet you. "Yeah. Thanks." She doesn't seem like she's leaving. I pat Pat on the head and keep it short, sweet, and nonviolent. "Goodbye, big man. I won. I get to be a new man."

### Chapter 119

My car is totaled, my right arm is in a sling, and it's almost Christmas when I get out of the hospital. I only stayed two nights. The first snow is on the ground. I make a phone call. Johnny picks up after one ring. "You dead?"

"No, man. You guys get everything taken care of?"

"You're all set up. They were pissed off when they woke up."

"They'll get over it. You feed my cat?"

"This morning. She wasn't happy."

"She'll probably get over it too. Can you tell Jeff I made it?"

"Can't tell him yourself?"

"I kind of can't be friends with him anymore. This was a temporary thing. Thank him for me. He'll be pissed."

"Can do. See you later?"

"In a few days. I've got a lot to do. Later, buddy. Thanks for the help."

"No problem. We'll take on my craziness next time, okay? I'll see you later."

I flip the phone shut and return to concentrating on driving. I rented me a nice luxury car, with a GPS and LED headlights and all the trimmings. Shiny and black. If I like it enough, I'll buy me one. I've still got some money yet. Miss my Lincoln, though. That thing was a tank. Taken out by the only thing that can stop an unstoppable force like that: another Lincoln.

I've got a long drive back to Baltimore, but I find myself not minding in the slightest. This is the first time in a while I've had this sort of peace. The way I figure it, Homeland Security kept the investigation in house, given what Pat was dealing in. They pinned the whole thing on Ian, seeing as how things wound up, and figure Pat shot him at the end of it all. I'm sure the guards will have me enough taller and more menacing in their memories than I actually am to fit Ian's description. With any luck the project will be deemed too dangerous to start up again. I probably got everyone who was married to the damn thing. I hope. They should hope too, if they know what's good for them.

I've got a little project of my own to start up. It's going to take a lot of work, maybe some help from a friend or two, but I'm confident that I can make a positive impact. I taught two humans to fight like demons. I can teach twenty demons how to live like humans. I've already done it for one more than a couple times.

It's late afternoon when I pull into the empty parking lot of my empty warehouse surrounded by empty warehouses. I turn off the car, hop out, and unlock the door. A cage rattles immediately. Good to see it's nice and sturdy. I step over to the foot locker I put next to the sizable equipment cage in my empty warehouse. Opening it up, I grab a pack of cookies, the store brand ones with the "cream" in the middle. These ones have double. I tear the pack open and walk over to the cage. They've got plenty of the basics of survival in there, including food, water and a working toilet. It's more than big enough for twenty.

"Hello, class, and welcome to humanity 101. I am Professor Werner. I will be your guide on this wonderful journey back to civilization."

Benny yells "Devil!" at me from the back.

"Bad! When you do something wrong, I will tell you it is bad. In most cases, I will tell you why. If you do something right, you get a cookie. Any questions?" Silence. Dumb stares come at me from all across the cage. "Good. Then we'll begin our first lesson."

### Chapter 120

The drive to New York takes much longer than it should. Holiday traffic is already kicking up, I guess. I'm going to have to pay extra for the mileage on this rental. I know it. I spend about an hour figuring out my finances while I'm trapped in the eerie brightness of the Holland Tunnel. I'm doing okay. I can afford to finish college, but my recent spending sprees have made it clear that, at some point in the near future, I'm going to have to work for a living. I shudder at the thought.

An apartment building near NYU is my target. The GPS is a load of help in finding it, though it doesn't work well when I'm around the taller buildings. It helps finding parking as well. I kind of wish I'd bought one a few months ago. I spend about two and a half years trying to parallel park (apparently my powers of hand-eye coordination have met their match), then unload myself from the car. My right arm isn't feeling too awful. I plunge into the darkness of an alley, make an athletic jump up to grab a fire escape ladder and begin my ascent. Maybe my arm is feeling a _little_ awful.

I stop on the third floor and count the windows in either direction. This looks about right. I wouldn't want to break in on the wrong unsuspecting person. That's just bad manners. I remove the storm window with my handy pocket knife and set it aside. The window proper isn't locked, which makes things easier, but seriously, who leaves their windows unlocked in Manhattan in the winter?

The window is easy to climb through, that's why there's a fire escape outside it. I close it behind me. The apartment is a decent size for a one bedroom. It must be expensive as hell. A couple bookshelves, packed to the gills with books of all shapes and sizes, line the walls. There aren't any posters or paintings on the walls, just a kitten calendar and a guitar. The place is pretty clean, but a dish or two from breakfast is sitting in the sink. There's a chair in the corner of the room, a chair I know all-too-well. I give it a little more consideration than the rest of the furniture.

No one's home, so I find myself with a half hour to wander around, examine every nook and cranny. I enjoy it, and I'm not usually one for scenery. It's not until boredom finally sets in, and I get just lazy enough to sit on the couch for some TV that I hear a key in the lock. I slink down into the couch as the door opens.

"Who's there?"

What the hell did I do wrong? I'm supposed to be way sneakier than this. Or she's way smarter than all those punks I broke in on before. I stand up slowly, a sheepish grin on my face. "You're supposed to lock your windows when you live in a city. There's crazies out there."

Chelsea puts her bag down on the counter, runs over and punches me in the arm over and over until I think I might have two bad arms. "What the hell's the big idea? You're not supposed to break into people's houses! You almost scared me to death!"

I grin and shrug. "I thought I'd surprise you. Figured you were aching to see me by now."

She punches me in the chest, then crosses her arms. "I get it. You couldn't wait until I got home for Christmas. You had to see me. You're a total stalker."

"Don't flatter yourself. I happened to be in the neighborhood with my super shiny rental car, and I figured you might want a ride. I guess I was wrong, though. I'll just take my heated seats and go home." I turn towards the window I climbed in, knowing that I'll probably fall to my death if I have to climb down that fire escape. I take a token super-slow step away from her, then pause as she inhales.

"Heated seats, you say?"

### Chapter 121

Staring out the windshield at the lights in the tunnel, she's smiling. I know because I keep glancing over. Her question leads me to believe she has decent peripheral vision. "So, how long have you _actually_ been in love with me? Since the day we met?" Chelsea's sitting in the passenger's seat, and we're on our way home. Saving her a bus ride scored me massive points.

I'm no good at the whole flirting thing, if that's what we're doing, but I try to keep up anyways. "In your fantasy world? You'd be a better authority on that than I would."

"Liar." She turns to face me. I know I look like hell. I've only been out of the hospital for a few days. The beating I took won't go away for weeks. "What in the world happened to you?"

Sighing, I look down at the wheel, then out at the road. The screaming in my head is the quietest it's been since my lawsuit settled. It's strange being alone with my thoughts like this. "Crashed the Lincoln. It was kind of bad, and totally my fault. Using a cell phone while driving and all that crap."

"Not what I meant, but now that you mention it don't do that anymore. You've had enough brushes with death." And how. "I mean with you. You seem more like you again. You kind of seemed like you were, I don't know, someone else for a while."

Traffic has ground to a halt. Maybe carbon monoxide is building up in the car, making both of us act a little strange. Instead of devoting half my energy to pretending to be a regular person, I'm devoting half my energy to remembering how to be a regular person. "I don't think I could even begin to tell you."

"You could try."

I smile as I have a sudden epiphany. This is my moment. I can get rid of a question I really don't want to answer, and do something I really want to do, all in one fell swoop. I lean across the car and put my good hand on the back of her head. She grabs my wrist, gently, and pulls my hand away.

"Seriously? This again? The doctors check you for brain damage?"

Damn it. I just made this into the longest drive imaginable. You know what, though? No. That's not how this ends. "Yeah. For real this time." She's still holding my wrist, so I move it back towards me, pulling us together, and kiss her hard on the lips. She kisses me back just as hard. It's a hundred times better than the soft kiss. It's perfect.

### ###

### An Excerpt from Rappaccini's Project

By the time I actually get home it's crazy late, and I'm ready for the first time in a while to curl up in bed and get some actual, restful, dreamless sleep. Dreamless being the key word. I get home, push the door open, and can tell immediately someone's been in my place. They must have made a point of making a mess, just to make sure I'd know I've been searched. My knives are spread out across the floor, every last one pulled out of its sleeve, my clothes thrown about every which way. The bed itself is overturned, because they couldn't find anything else to make a mess with. I guess while I was making a fool of myself someone noticed me. Oh well.

I flip the bed back over, pull my rather terrible blanket back up and climb in without so much as taking off my boots. My head hits the pillow a second later, some indeterminate amount of time passes, and I fall asleep. It feels like I sleep for a long time, but obviously I can't tell for sure. When my eyes open again there's something in the room with me, a blurry shape. My eyes won't come into focus, but there's something looming over me. That doesn't happen. My eyes don't go out of focus. At the same time, I don't give a damn, I'm so tired. My eyes close themselves back up, and I'm dead to the world again. I have plain old dreams, the kind that don't seem to involve interdimensional travel, and hours upon hours seem to slip away.

All at once I'm up with a start, and it's still pitch black. My eyes work just fine this time, and there's no one in the room with me, and I'm just as far from tired as I usually am these days. Everything is back to normal. But someone is watching me. I get up, out of bed, and check the window, but there's no one there. The door then. I position myself on the side closest the knob and pull it open, letting the momentum of the initial pull do all the work as I draw my hand back close. Just in case there's an angry mob that's only interested in cutting off my right hand. A cold wind carries the door back, all the way open, and the street is dark and empty.

Except a second later it's not. She's standing there, the woman in white from my dream, where there was no one just a second before. My first thought is to go for the kill, that I could use another dead god on my hands, to pair with the dog monster, but that thought just kind of fades into the ether, and at once I'm not even sure I had it at all. She's not looking at me, she's not moving, just sort of hanging there a few feet away, waiting for something and I can't tell what. Her head turns towards me slightly, and this wave of relaxation washes over me like she's made of it. This woman didn't hire me to kill anyone. This woman is something beyond the very existence of death, let alone the need for it. She doesn't need anything, and we haven't been doing her justice.

My mind decides I should go to her, but for some reason my body is unresponsive, and I just stand there in the doorway while the minutes melts away: the lowly woman in black and the heavenly woman in white. Finally she turns her head the rest of the way, just enough to look at me, but the expression on her beautiful, carved marble face is distant and unseeing, like she's looking past the spot I'm standing at something worlds more interesting than I am. It's a disappointment. I breathe, and that seems to take about eighty percent of the effort I'm capable of mustering. With what little I have remaining, I pull my voice out of its hiding spot.

"Why did you choose _them_?" I don't get it out much louder than a whisper, but she hears me.

First she looks down a little bit, then she smiles. Her whisper is even quieter than mine, it's this kind of jingle in the air that I understand perfectly, but at the same time I can't be sure that I've heard anything at all. "They chose me, child. _I_ chose _you_."

But that's all out of whack, I know it was the old man who chose me, and the old man doesn't like this lady. My dream told me. Or maybe I'm crazy, or the old man is a liar, either way I'm not finding myself physically capable of disagreeing with the goddess. The wind picks up, and now I'm shivering hard enough that I have to clench my jaw against it. For some reason I'd really rather she not see any hint of human weakness in me, and I'm really hoping it's because I'm sold on the idea of her being the enemy. Hating the minions and loving the master are not a winning combination.

The lady in white finally turns full on to look at me, her mouth in a half smile, and she nods the tiniest bit. "Go back to sleep now, my child. The day ahead will be long and cold. You need to rest while you can."

I nod my head slowly while stepping backwards, into the doorway. Her eyes close, and so do mine, and when I open them again I'm alone. The chill in the air is only growing stronger, and dawn, it seems, is still hours away. I push the door shut and climb back in to bed, not tired in the slightest, but there doesn't seem to be anything else to do.

### ###

### About the Author

Sam T Willis has been writing stories since he was five years old. It started with a convoluted narrative centered on a plucky group of ninjas, their seemingly endless gun battles against anonymous aggressors, and the ever-present threat of the "Crushing Machine," which one of them would inexplicably fall into every-so-often, and need to be rescued by a new, even better ninja. The stories he writes these days have substantially fewer ninjas, but they make up for it with grit. People tell him he's gritty.

Sam is the owner, proprietor and sole employee of BokkenMonkey Industries, an essentially imaginary business, and its various subsidiaries. If you put BokkenMonkey into the search engine of your choice, there's a good chance Sam is responsible for whatever you find. He makes no promises, though.

### Where to find said Author

Website: http://SamTWillis.com

Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/SWBokkenMonkey

Twitter: http://twitter.com/BokkenMonkey

Smashwords: http://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/bokkenmonkey

Independent Author Network:  http://www.independentauthornetwork.com/sam-willis.html

