Blood Soaked and Invaded - 02 (41 page)

“My darling, I am afraid for our morals,” Bajali commented to his wife.

“I am not, but I am strangely fascinated by the biological implications of thought-controlled nanotechnology.”

Chunhua pushed herself away from the table to get a glass of water. She gave me a sharp rap upside my head as she walked by me.

“I think we have lived in isolation for a little too long. We’re all becoming just as bent as Frank is.” She declared. “Even you, Jayashri! I’m so ashamed!”

We all cracked up. Chunhua Yan
: comedienne of the apocalypse. Leave it to her to find the perfect moment to break the tension!

I wondered for a moment if she’d end up as my sister-in-law.

Matt spoke up when the laughter faded.

“I’ve already requested a psychiatrist to bolster our internal staff. They tell me someone will be en route to us in 48 hours and will likely arrive with new recruits.” He stretched a little before finishing. “The new allotment of candidates was accelerated. We can expect no less than 20. I’ve also been told the Corps of Engineers will be back later today to clear more space for another building or two, one of which will be a barracks.”

“When do we start hunting our sticky-fingered guests?” I had to ask. No one had brought it up beyond mentioning it was first on the list before revenge.

“We’re waiting on the powers that be to give us a location and transportation. It could happen at any moment,” Matt answered me. “We’re going to have a briefing at 9am. I expect you to be there, since you’re now among the able-bodied.”

“Count on it. I could use some exercise and target practice.”

The conversation wrapped up with too many loose threads for my liking, and I stalked off to my hardware store to... I don’t know what I’d planned to do. I didn’t think I’d be getting any sleep.

I was right about that.

What greeted me when I opened the front door? Bloodstains. Bloody shoeprints. A long smear of dried blood marked a path through the store and into the storage room. I can’t say whether or not it was a mistake to follow it, but I did.

I stood in the middle of the room we used for our community meetings. One look at the floor and I saw how events had played out in my absence. My only consolation was the sure understanding I couldn’t have been here to help her or save anyone. I was under rubble, unconscious and semi-barbequed when these things went down.

One blood spatter in particular caught my attention. The shape was unique, part splatter, part spray, as though something had been punctured and bled out profusely on that very spot. Anyone, genius or idiot, could have figured out the origins of that dried red-black stain on the concrete.

Repeating crunching sounds competed for my attention. Reluctantly, I turned my head just a bit to the right to see what the noises were about. I saw little potholes in the concrete, about the size of a fist.

Note to self #1: learn to control the new arm’s reaction to my emotional state.

Note to self #2: fuck it.

Bernard Grachevsky gutted my girlfriend on that spot. He cut out her uterus and killed our unborn child RIGHT THERE. The lizard-faced motherfucker tried to kill her, and took her womb with him when he left. Words can’t begin to describe my rage.

I looked up from the floor, and saw the whiteboard over by the wall. There was a note written on it, in blood that had dried and cracked on the plastic surface.

“Thanks Frank!”

Should I have expected such a thing from him? I don’t know. In a way, he’d fooled all of us, including Omura–the man who knew him best. Now Omura was dead, really dead, and so were Ramos, Boyle and Fitzgerald.

I’d never even learned their first names.

Buttons hurt our kids–I didn’t even know how Nancy was recovering or what exactly had happened to her. He killed my unborn child.

Must. Keep. Calm.

He nearly killed Charlie.

Must. Keep. Calm.

I had to leave the room. I didn’t know what would happen if I’d remained in there any longer. As it was I’d have lots of holes in the floor to repair. In the end I walked the aisles of my store, like a flat-chested Lady Macbeth, and the blood followed me everywhere I went.

How did Charlie even live? What trick did Chunhua use? There had to be something, or I wouldn’t have felt that ping of recognition.

“What did you do Chunhua? Why didn’t Charlie bleed out on the floor?” I opened the discussion, and waited for a response to appear in my head.

“Do you ever sleep?” Her reply managed to carry petulance and understanding at the same time. Telepathy had some good points.

“Lately? Yes. Drugs will do that.” I stood in the middle of the paint aisle with my hands on my hips, looking up at the ceiling. “What did you do to Charlie?”

“I want to set a ground rule before I answer your question. If you ever call me while I’m in the middle of sex, you had better be in the bed with us or I won’t bother answering. Have I made myself clear?”

“!”

“Give me a break. I’m a horny old lady and I’m making up for the last 25 years.”

“I understand your rule.” I was shocked enough that my eyes rolled around, looking for a way to power-wash my imagination. “I won’t bother you during intimate moments.”

“Thank you,” she said. “In answer to your question, I fed her some of our special formula. We can do that, just so you know. We can control the ‘dose’ and limit the functionality of the ’bots, too.”

“Shit!”

“I did just enough to get the major bleeding stopped and keep her stable while we carried her across the street. Jayashri and her staff did the rest.”

“Can we do anything for her mind?” I had to ask, even expecting the answer I received.

“No. She has to heal the old-fashioned way.”

“I’m scared for her.”

“I know,” she sent to me, “and so are we. Shawn’s beside himself and I can’t help him at all. We know Charlie’s strong and resilient. We know she’ll have every bit of support we can give her. That is enough reason to have faith.”

“Thank you for saving her.”

“No problem, little brother. Get some sleep. We’ll talk more later today. Kisses.”

“Sleep well, Chu.”

She cut the link, and I didn’t move for a few minutes. A storm was ripping around inside me, and I didn’t dare take a step until I calmed down.

The rage was like having a torn muscle in my lower back. I could feel the spasms around it, daring me to move and set it off. But indulging that madness now, seductive as it was, wouldn’t allow me to do what needed to be done, and it wouldn’t help me if I ever had Buttons in my sights.

No. To make use of that rage, I had to control it–make it burn cold and long. Feeding it would make it burn too fast and leave me empty before it was safe to be empty.

Was it the Klingons who said that revenge is a dish best served cold? I could get behind that 100%. Patience, grasshopper. Patience.

Around 6am I was possessed by the notion that I really should get more sleep. I climbed the stairs, and flopped down on my cozy pile of sleeping bag, blankets and pillows. Just like always, I rolled over a few times before sticking my right arm under the pillow and nuzzling the pillowcase with my face. All systems were go for sleep.

I couldn’t sleep.

There wasn’t even a decent excuse like, “There was just too much light in that room,” or some other rationalization for the Sandman abandoning you in your time of need. The grainy little shit ignored me completely, even in the face of my super-secret sleepy ass-wiggle. Damned good thing he didn’t have a holiday like Santa Claus, because I’d boycott leaving cookies and milk beside my bed just to spite him.

Abandoned by the gods, or just too full of neurotransmitters to calm down, I rolled over onto my back and studied the acoustic tile ceiling. Hidden in between the pits and hills of the white panels, I found a tiny truth: I was burned out.

I’d hit my limit–and blown through it. My conscious choice to set the rage aside seemed to have unforeseen consequences, not the least of which being I no longer had access to the fuel that kept me running more often than not. Is peace the absence of rage?

Looking up at the tiles I teetered on the edge of philosophy. With a snort of derision, I stood up, shucked my clothes, and put on the nearest clean things I could find. Philosophy suits me as well as poetry.

After pausing briefly to strap on a holstered .45, I leapt off the top stair and landed on the floor below. I decided to take a walk–and make coffee in Building Two if no one had beaten me to it.

The block my store sits on is a long one, but when you turn the corner at the other end, B2 is impossible to miss... even less possible to miss with a collapsed leading wall. The cafeteria was open to the cold morning air.

I had friends die on that floor. Half a block away I had a friend save my life and lose his own in the process. How do you memorialize things like that? Headstones and comforting words didn’t seem like enough.

How I could honor these people? All I came up with was to live well and keep my extended family as safe as possible. Those were my goals anyhow, so my feet were already on the right path... cold consolation, but consolation nonetheless.

I walked through the rubble and wreckage, all the way back into the kitchen. The damage wasn’t as bad in the kitchen, and I was grateful for that. I could find everything I needed to get a couple of buckets of coffee brewing, so that’s what I did.

When the brewing was done, I found a flat spot in the rubble and sat down with a cup in my hand. I toasted three brave men, and raised my mug a little higher at the burnt matchsticks across the street–all that was left of Shoei Omura’s home. Feelings welled up in me and I knew I’d be dealing with them for quite a while, even if I managed to track Buttons down and end him.

Major Kenney seemed to appear out of nowhere.

“Thinking deep thoughts, Mr. Stewart?”

“Yes, so deep I didn’t even notice you until you spoke up.”

“Is there any more coffee?”

“I overdid things a bit. There’s plenty,” I answered, cocking my thumb back at the open-air kitchen.

The Major grunted and marched off to secure bean juice for himself, leaving me to quietly sip from my mug. I was a little surprised when he came back, found a stable chunk of wall to sit on, and took up position on it. No one knew him well enough to judge his intentions: maybe I’d be getting an opportunity to do so.

“May I call you Frank?” He asked me out of nowhere and I was a little taken aback.

“Go on.”

“Frank, I want you on the team when we take Bravo Euro down.”

I let his words sink in for a moment before I tried to offer a reply.

“You mean there was a chance I wouldn’t included?”

That got a belly laugh out of him. I was of two minds about that reaction, but I let it go.

“I’m glad to see you’re eager. So am I. I detest shit going down in front of my face, or on my watch.” He took a quick slug of coffee before continuing. “Just between you and me, when we pinpoint Buttons’ position, I will not stand in your way.”

“I appreciate that very much, sir.” I didn’t even have to lie.

“Just do us all a favor–make damned sure he dies and those creatures know it was you who did it. They need to understand the sort of shit we’ll bring down on their little orange heads.”

“Keep talking like that, Major, and I’ll start believing you’ve got a heart.”

“Don’t spread it around.” He finished off the coffee, and hung his hands between his knees. “I take a fucking dim view of treason. Bernard ‘Buttons’ Grachevsky is my current poster child for traitors. Besides, after what he did, he owes you a death–he owes it to Miss Cooper, really, but I don’t think she’ll be up to it for a while yet.”

“I hope you’re wrong about that. I really do.”

He grunted in acknowledgment, or he polluted the atmosphere with something noxious. I couldn’t tell from where I sat, so I took a wild guess he was expressing agreement instead.

Melancholy seemed to be the tone for the morning. I had to stand up and do something, or I would just sit there, doing nothing but gazing into my own navel.

What did I do? Stood up and walked.

My feet stopped in a surprising place: right in front of Darcy and Jim Smith’s front door. I guess I wanted to see how they were getting on. Would anyone even answer the door at 7:30 in the morning?

Knock.

Darcy opened the door, took one look at me, made an “eep” noise and hopped backward.

“Let me guess. It’s the eye. Right? I look like half a goth.” I gave her a wan smile, and was surprised when she nearly tackled me with a flying hug. “Don’t squeeze so hard, or I’ll act like a toothpaste tube! The welcome mat would hate me forever!”

“We were so worried,” she sniffled against my neck. Freaky shit, I swear.

“Can’t keep a troublemaker like me down for long.” I tried to smile, but it felt more like a grin made of toothpicks–brittle and likely to snap. “I dropped by to see how Nancy is. I heard she got hurt badly and I was concerned.”