1 |
2 | 3
They were monitoring it all from a
non-descript black van parked close to the target area, Vincent’s
science team were in radio contact all the time, feeding the
information back from the hall’s cameras. They were growing more and
more concerned, but for some reason they were also transfixed by the
live ‘snuff’ that played out before them.
"Subject has left room 346,
is continuing to display highly aggressive tendencies, heightened sense
of awareness and an increase in blood pressure." An almost monotone
voice spoke into the microphone.
"Christ, Lewis, this man’s
no longer a borderline psycho!" The other speaker was a thinner man,
blonde and a pair of glasses perched on the end of his nose. "We’ve got
to call in the Sweepers now!"
"Not until we have all the
data we need, Vincent’s orders." A slate-stone reply that left his
partner gawping just like a goldfish might.
"This isn’t a fucking mouse
in a cage man, it’s a real human being, and he’s killing people." The
thin man’s voice was a growl in answer.
"Inconclusive data, we don’t
know it’s the Prozium that triggered it, but if we can get the body
back for analysis."
"Body?"
"Yes, the project needs to
be terminated to prevent the discovery of the drug. Until we can
administer the drug to a subject and have them suffer no-side effects,
the drug must remain – hidden." He even sounded like his superior,
almost mechanical in his replies.
Warrick’s wanted to vomit,
he gave the other man a look of sheer revulsion, and he was about to
reply when the communication screen flared in the back of the van.
"I trust that you have
something to report?" Vincent questioned, looking at both men from the
flat panel. He noted their expressions, Lewis as always was stone-faced
and studying the data before him. The blonde had a face that could have
been described as vexed, his eyes were almost bulging and his lips were
set into a deep frown.
"Subject Hunt has suffered
the usual reaction to batch 231, his psychosis seems to have manifested
with hallucinations, he believes himself to be some kind of instrument
of God’s justice upon the world. He evinces classic possession
behaviour as some of the other subjects in the past and has begun a
killing spree starting with apartment 346 and the Warrens."
Warricks listened to the
other’s explanation and opened his mouth to speak; Vincent cut him off
with his next statement.
"I see." There were a few
moments of silence as the man began to contemplate various actions and
reactions. "I think, it will be for the best if we terminate Hunt now.
You have the…" He stopped and turned his head, addressing someone off
camera, someone perhaps important, both men in the van could hear the
Council members side of the conversation and typically the blonde man
strained to hear the other’s voice.
"I am not sure if…"
"Well, since you put it that
way, I can see the wisdom of it."
"Two birds with one stone as
they say, I will give the order right now."
"There has been a slight
change of plan, are you listening?"
Both men looked up and fixed
their eyes onto the screen before them, the nervous blonde haired man
didn’t like the sound of this, he was already running a hidden mic –
recording it all, while he didn’t know Hunt personally, he didn’t like
what was going on.
"You are to stand by, and
watch the effectiveness of this next demonstration. Then you will
assist the Sweepers in the collection of the subject’s corpse, do I
make myself…clear?" Vincent turned off the screen, and it died in a
flicker.
"Demonstration?" He echoed
Vincent’s words.
"Be quiet and watch the
screens, you need to learn that what Father and the Council want, is
what we do. There is no room to question, there is no room for – error."
"Or compassion?"
"Compassion pulled the
trigger of the gun that nearly killed us all, in the Great War."
"Here we go again, Emotions
are bad kay?" Warricks gave a snort and forced his eyes to watch the
screen, Hunt was painting odd pictures, like cave-paintings in blood on
the walls. "Oh shit…shitshitshit…"
"Calm down, you sound like
Hunt." The other man had learned a while ago to cut emotions from his
being, to deaden them, to focus on the most important thing that
mattered – Father’s new order.
Through their monitors and
screens they watched him carve a path to the buildings’ security, the
guard’s throat slit from ear to ear in once vicious moments action.
Rivers of red trickling down the chair, across the floor and into the
tiles. The ex-Sweeper rifled the body, now he had a gun. A killer gleam
flickered in his eyes and he looked down the barrel, sniffing it in an
animalistic way.
"That’s not how you use a
gun you fucking moron." The voice in his head chided. "Give it here,
freaking animals."
A tiny fragment of who he
was knew how to use that gun, knew the way to pull the trigger, the way
to switch the safety off. He left the knife embedded in the guard’s
chest and wandered off down another hall, randomly shooting as people
popped up like targets at a macabre shooting gallery. Headshots, gut
wounds, leg shots, you name it, Hunt wasn’t the best Sweeper but he
knew how to use his gun.
At the end of the hall there
was someone, someone he dimly recognised, someone who he thought he
knew – a crystal voice rang out and cut the air like a knife.
"Drop it."
She was a vision in black,
sleek like a panther, deadly like a cobra – a Grammaton Cleric, he
raised the gun to fire…
The Angel of Death tapped
him on the shoulder and whispered into his ear – got a light?
The moment that Hunt had
raised the firearm, the Cleric’s training took over; Trish couldn’t
hesitate for one second. Her mind processed the statistics of the
target’s attack and she swept herself in a balletic motion to one side,
the resounding crack of the pistol and the whisper of air as the bullet
passed sheer breaths away from her head stirred her into action.
This was no longer a human
being, she didn’t stop to think, she reacted at pure training level –
the first steps of the Kata already being replayed in her minds eye,
curiously detached from the proceedings, it was as if she watched from
a different perspective. She saw the man fire again and her response, a
single movement to drop to her one knee, the Tetragrammaton’s weapon in
her one hand springing from a hidden wrist-holster.
Her world now as he gripped
the trigger of the gun, had reduced itself to a single thread of
action, one choice only. Kill or be killed, no mercy and no questions.
Trish hadn’t even recognised her lover by the time her own weapon
barked out a single shot, it was a trademark kill shot, and it ripped
through the ex-Sweeper’s body with a spray of shimmering red, severing
blood vessels and tearing through the muscle tissue like a piranha –
but he didn’t go down, by all rights it should have killed him.
But he was dancing on a drug
induced high; the body was a slave of another instinct. One that
overrode everything else blocked out his nerve and pain receptors and
turned him into a single-minded killing machine. He roared at the
Cleric and charged, blinded by the powerful rage that surged through
him in waves.
One blink was all that the
woman was allowed, before the bloody spectre of revenge was hurtling at
her, she dropped the other gun into her hand and turned both weapons to
the destruction of her opposition. No need for complex statistical
moves here, the amount of lead that she rained into Hunt’s raging body
grew by the second, a cavalcade of death with her at the head, cracking
the whip time and time again.
But even that wasn’t enough
to stop him from closing the gap, his body might have been almost torn
to shreds, but her shots were not enough to prevent a hand from
snapping around her throat and locking there. She gasped and coughed
the once, blood from his body coating her lips and face. There was only
one resort now, and she depressed the button on the guns, before the
death throes of Hunt claimed her life.
Four metal studs clicked out
from the butt of the weapons and she turned them over quickly, her
vision starting to swim. Both were brought to the sides and impacted
with the crazed man’s head, just across the ears, she did this three
times until he finally let go. But she didn’t stop there, blow after
blow rained down on the vital points of her attacker, temples, throat
and head – the bridge of his nose was shattered and his lip split in
four places.
This caused Hunt to stagger
backwards and try now to get away, dimly inside the man’s head there
was some kind of struggle which he’d almost won, the blows to the ears
had somehow managed to return him to a tiny shred of sense – the
animalistic instinct of fight or flight kicked in and he turned to run
back up the corridor.
Trish wasn’t going to let
this murderous scum get far of course, she shook her head to clear it
and the studs retracted, as the man moved off with superhuman speed she
chased after him, through the building’s corridors – the ex-Sweeper was
heading back to their room, and he slammed through and into the
bathroom, Hunt was desperately trying to fight back now, flickers of
what he’d become burning into his head like hot barbs.
When she saw the man charge
into their room, her heart sank, and for a moment she forgot her
Cleric’s training…for a moment she looked to see if she could see her
lover, it hadn’t occurred to her, since Ian was covered in dried blood
and looked one hell of a mess, the man she’d been battling had been
him. But when she got into the bathroom, and he turned to face her, the
ruined and beaten – bloodstained figure, living on drug-borrowed time
simply croaked out.
"Trish?"
There was a sharp crack
behind her and something hissed past her, a red flower blooming on the
ex-Sweeper’s forehead and a red spray onto the remains of the mirror,
he snapped almost to attention from the impact and his eyes went wide
and glassy. She turned around angrily and saw Vincent there, by his
side was another figure…this one was much younger, perhaps twenty years
old or so, he had short dark hair, cropped perfectly and wore the same
uniform as she did – he was also holding a smoking pistol, the grey
still licking about the barrel like an unleashed dragon.
"Patricia, you took far too
long to deal with just one maniac, one has to wonder if you have
exactly what it takes to become a Cleric."
Vincent’s voice was like a
whip and Trish stepped back a pace or two, the younger man smiled and
the gun spoke again. The older man looked to the other and raised an
eyebrow. "Was that entirely needed?"
As Trish’s body fell to land
on the floor beside her lover, the young man nodded to Vincent.
"Father’s orders, I am afraid, we cannot allow anyone to realise the
mistake – if there is no mistake to their eyes, then the Prozium
project can continue, if there is a single error – then the project is
doomed."
There was a single blink and
Vincent fixed the younger Cleric with a sudden look of fear, mixed with
admiration. "What is your name, Cleric?"
"DuPont Sir, trainee of the
Tetragrammaton."
"Walk with me, DuPont…we
will leave this for the cleanup crews." The older man started towards
the door and smiled a little. "Everything turned out rather well."
"Yes…excellen-t…" Was all
the young man said and turned on his heel, both of them left the two
bodies, lying now, embraced in death as they once were in life. The
secret of the Prozium mishap was taken with Patricia and Ian to the
City’s furnaces where the hungry flames devoured skin, bone and
body…leaving…not even a memory.
If you wish to comment on this story join the
discussion on the boards...
EQ Fiction: House of Cards
Also see
original art by Hellion (Wolf's wife)...
