Scott Nicholson - Chronic fear

“You’d better hide,” Roland said. The car was nearer, barely a hundred yards away through the woods.

“I’ll wait with Wendy.”

Roland thought of the painting, with its graphic ladder of molecules, leaning against the wall. “It’s too dangerous.”

“They won’t suspect anything.”

“We’ve been exposed to Seethe.” Roland let one side of his lips twitch. “We’re suspicious all the time.”

Before Gundersson could protest, the car came to a stop and its engine fell quiet, still out of sight and far from the yard.

“That’s weird,” Roland said. “The road gets a little rougher, but it’s passable.”

“It’s not them,” Gundersson said, drawing his firearm from a shoulder holster tucked inside his camo vest.

“But we’re expecting-”

“Get inside.”

“Hold on, cowboy, you’re not my boss.”

“I told you I’d protect you, but I can’t do that if you’re going to be a hardheaded jackass.”

“If it’s not them, who else would it-”

Gundersson leapt forward and shoved him just as an explosion ripped across the mountains. Splinters kicked up from the rail as Roland tumbled to the porch floor, pinching his fingers in the armrest of the chair. His revolver skated across the porch and his face was pressed against the foxtail, its pungent, primal mammal scent flooding his nostrils.

Another shot rang out, the report much louder than that from Gundersson’s Glock, and one of the windows behind him shattered.

Wendy!

Moments ago, he’d been contemplating her death, followed by his own, but now that someone was taking the decision out of his hands, Roland was fueled by a savage desire to survive.

Gundersson crouched behind a support post, his pistol arm tracking the forest, looking for the source of the gunfire. “Rifle,” he said under his breath. “Saw the reflection of the scope.”

The door opened again and Wendy stood there, wearing jeans and a bra. She didn’t speak, but her eyes were wide in surprise. Roland waved her back inside then rolled toward the door. Another shot plowed into the wood inches from his head, the bullet’s passage causing his ears to ring.

He scrambled through the door and was about to kick it closed when Gundersson fired twice, duck-walking backward a few steps before rolling into a ball and taking a tumbling somersault through the door.

Wendy slammed it shut behind him and leaned against the wall, breathing rapidly. “Ro?”

“I need answers,” Roland said to Gundersson.

“Do you need a scorecard?” Gundersson said. “Somebody found out, that’s all.”

The agent untangled his limbs on the floor. A red blotch had collected on the outside of his thigh, and Gundersson pressed against it with his palm. The effort didn’t stanch the flow much.

Roland snaked along the wall to Wendy and put his arm around her. She appeared to be catatonic, helpless and vulnerable. Just like in the Monkey House. “I thought they wanted us alive,” he said to Gundersson.

Gundersson rose, locking the door and limping to the nearest window. “I guess they changed their minds.”

Wendy stuttered as if wanting to say something, but Roland put a finger to her lips. “Shh. It’s going to be okay, baby.”

He thought about sending her upstairs, but she might be visible through the windows as she climbed the steps. The walls of the cabin were made of thick beams of yellow pine, so she was safer staying where she was.

“How many are there?” he asked Gundersson.

“Hard to tell. The shots came from two different locations, but they could have a backup so they can cut off any escape.”

Gundersson lifted away the curtain with the tip of his Glock, craning his neck to peer out.

“Pretty convenient, don’t you think?” Roland asked.

“What?” Gundersson was barely listening.

“Staging an attack so we would trust you.” Roland pointed his revolver at Gundersson, who didn’t notice. “But you made a mistake. You should have waited until Alexis and Mark got here.”

“Quit the goddamned crazy talk, Roland. They shot me in the fucking leg! My field director warned me that other agencies might be closing in. I just didn’t think they’d be hostile.”

“You guys are all on the same side to me. The wrong side.”

Gundersson must have heard the menace in Roland’s voice, because he finally turned. He might have said “Oh, shit” under his breath, or maybe he was wheezing in pain.

Wendy was moving behind him, but Roland didn’t dare move his gaze from Gundersson. The revolver was his one chance to control the situation.

God, grant me the wisdom to know the difference…

“Just tell me one thing,” Roland said. “Who is behind it?”

“We don’t know. My field director was checking into it, and that must have raised some eyebrows. It wouldn’t have been hard to track my location by satellite if you had the right gear.” Gundersson was talking fast but calmly, and Roland almost believed him. But people lied to save their necks. Roland knew all about that.

“According to our information, a rogue element-”

“Well, I’ve got some new information,” Roland said. “I have the formula for Seethe. The candy that everybody wants.”

Gundersson checked outside the window once more. Roland had to admire the guy. Here he was with a pistol pointed at him from six feet away, and he was acting more worried about the guns out there a hundred feet away. Gundersson gave a little nod that Roland didn’t understand, and then Roland’s head exploded in violent flares of electric yellow and solar-flare red.

The dull klung filled his skull like a funeral bell, and as he slumped to the floor, his last image was of Wendy, standing there in her bra, a black cast-iron skillet in her hand.

“Wendy’s not answering,” Alexis said.

“Try again.” Mark had grown more edgy and hostile the deeper they’d penetrated into the Blue Ridge Mountains, and in the first light of dawn, Alexis was horrified by her husband’s appearance. He was unshaven and his hair was mussed, but it was his eyes that made him seem wild and dangerous. As she watched his face in the rearview, his eyes flitted from side to side, then to the back of Forsyth’s head, and then to hers in the mirror.

They’d passed several recreational entrances to the wilderness area, and the houses had thinned out accordingly as the asphalt turned to gravel. Alexis was afraid they might be lost.

Finally she came upon the unmarked side road that was little more than two ruts running through the forest. There were only two mailboxes at the intersection, one of them dented and missing its flap. She pulled up alongside the mailboxes and on one of them, hand painted, were the words “Roby Snow Rd.”

“This is it,” she said.

“Try them again,” Mark said.

She concentrated on punching the correct numbers, even though the reception was spotty and she only had half a bar of signal. Forsyth watched her with eyes like a vulture’s.

“Did you hear that?” Mark said.

Alexis, who had been intent on the ringing of the phone, shook her head. “What?”

“A gun.”

“Probably a hunter,” Forsyth offered. “This looks like Daniel Boone country.”

“Except hunting season ended four months ago.”

Alexis lost the signal, but seven rings had failed to get an answer. She dropped the phone in her purse. She glanced at her husband, who was hunched in the backseat. The Halcyon had not seemed to ease his condition, and she was afraid to lure him into trying another dose. Maybe Darrell Silver’s new formula wasn’t as new and improved as he’d promised.

“Do you think Roland and Wendy set us up?” Mark asked.