Scott Nicholson - Chronic fear

“They wouldn’t tell anyone,” Alexis said. “They have as much to lose as we do.”

“And as much to gain.”

“What should I do?”

“Drive.”

Alexis pulled forward, dodging the depressions and rocks in the road. The car jerked, slamming Forsyth against the door.

“Are you okay, Wallace?” Alexis asked him, slowing to about four miles per hour.

“‘And the Lord instructed the angels to pour out the seven vials upon the Earth,’” the old man muttered.

“You can take that as a yes,” Mark said. “He’s never been better.”

“I remember,” Forsyth said. “I remember the Monkey House. That’s when I had the vision.”

A second gunshot sounded. “They’re in trouble,” Mark said. “Speed up.”

The vegetation was thick on both sides of the road, waxy rhododendrons and laurels casting permanent shade. The trees were thick with green, and Alexis saw menace in their tangled branches, slowing the car to a hushed crawl.

She soon rounded a curve, swerving to avoid a large jagged stone, and ahead of them was a black SUV with tinted windows. It was pulled to the side of the logging road, two wheels in a ditch.

“Government license plate,” Mark said. “Looks like the bad guys got here first, Forsyth.”

Alexis braked to a stop. “Now what?”

Mark answered by racking a round into his Glock. “Now I go see what the hell’s going on. You stay here and keep an eye on our friend.”

“What if somebody comes?”

Mark passed the AR-15 over the seat, nearly bumping Forsyth’s head with the muzzle. “The road looks pretty dead. But if anybody comes out of the woods carrying a gun, you want to make sure they’re pretty dead, too.”

She held the rifle as if it were a stiffened snake. Although Mark had shown her how to operate it before, she’d barely paid attention, because she’d been intimidated by it. “I can’t.”

Mark pointed to a small swivel knob. “Turn this safety. Pull trigger. Go boom.”

“No, I mean I can’t fire it.”

“It’s no harder than smashing a man’s skull.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“What do you think it means?”

Something rippled in her gut like a greasy eel. “That never happened.”

“You have thirty rounds. Just pull the trigger every time you want to shoot. The gun will do the rest.”

“You don’t want to play at this level, Mark,” Forsyth said. “You thought things were bad in the Monkey House, but you’re way out of your league here.”

“Haven’t you been listening to my wife? I’m a lunatic freaking out on a rage drug. I’d say this is the perfect league for me.”

Mark opened the door as another shot sounded, apparently just over the hill. The echo of the gunfire drove an icy spear into Alexis’s heart. She awkwardly cradled the AR-15, resting it against the steering wheel.

“If I’m not back in five minutes, turn around and head back to Chapel Hill,” Mark said, stepping out of the car.

“I can’t go back without you,” Alexis responded.

“I’m feeling a little better.” Mark twisted the vial open with his gun hand, slid out a couple more tablets, and closed it. “Maybe Silver got it right. And you might be the only one who can keep Halcyon safe.”

He leaned over the seat and gave her a kiss on the cheek, dropping the vial beside her. She turned her head, acknowledging the trust he was placing in her, and kept turning until their lips met. After a moment, and another shot sounding in the woods, he broke contact and put the two tablets to his lips.

“I hope this works,” he said, before popping them and crunching them between his teeth. “And if I forget who you are, it’s nothing personal.”

“I love you,” she said.

“I know. And I’m sorry I gave you hell about sneaking the Halcyon. You were doing it to save me.”

I was doing it to save both of us.

She squeezed his hand. “Protect Wendy and Roland. We need them.”

He pulled away. “Doesn’t it seem convenient? They invite us up here, and suddenly it’s a survivalist showdown? But I think the feds jumped the gun. Right, Mr. Vice President?”

Forsyth remained silent, his head down and eyes closed as if he was praying. As Mark closed the door and headed for the woods, he jerked alert.

“You should do your husband a favor and kill him now, while his back is turned and he still trusts you,” Forsyth said to her. His eyes were bright with secret, inner knowledge-or manic delusion.

“You’re crazy.”

“We all are. But I saw God in the Monkey House, Dr. Morgan. And I don’t mean a presence, a feeling, a theory. I mean God. And He gave me a purpose.”

“Come on, Wallace. You were dosed with Seethe. We all freaked out that night. It was a chemical reaction and nothing more.”

She was only half listening, watching Mark through the front windshield. He waved from the edge of the woods and then slipped between the dark trees.

“Don’t you believe in destiny and prophecy?” Forsyth said.

“I believe in science.”

“Then here’s some science for you.”

Before she could stop him, Wallace grabbed the vial from the seat. “We knew Darrell Silver was refining Halcyon, but we didn’t know where he’d hidden it. I apologize for using you as bait, but he wouldn’t trust us. Especially when he started playing with Seethe.”

“Seethe was destroyed.”

“Silver is a genius. He was able to fill in the gaps and extrapolate it from Halcyon, just like Sebastian Briggs did. He claims he gave Seethe an upgrade, like he told you. But you didn’t believe him.” He held the vial up as if it were the sacramental chalice at a communion. “But I guess we’ll find out soon enough.”

His words finally dawned at her. “Wait. You’re saying that’s not Halcyon?”

He looked at the vial. “‘And the fifth angel poured out his vial upon the seat of the beast; and his kingdom was full of darkness; and they gnawed their tongues for pain.’”

She struggled to keep the semiautomatic pointed away from Forsyth’s face, because her finger begged to wrap around the trigger. “Mark just took three doses of Seethe?”

Wallace Forsyth grinned, and God wasn’t behind those wicked, twisted lips. Only darkness.

Gundersson had been prepared for the unexpected.

It was part of his training, and Harding had warned him that he was walking on quicksand. Somebody wanted Wendy and Roland, and after Wendy had told him the Morgans were on their way, he figured the odds of all hell breaking loose had increased exponentially. But the preemptive strike caught him by surprise.

Just the way Wendy had the night before.

She stood over her husband, swinging the frying pan nonchalantly at her side as if she were on her way to cook some bacon. Her eyes were vacant and hollow, staring past the wall as if heeding some unspoken command.

Gundersson was familiar with that expression, because he’d seen it in the firelight as they’d coupled. She’d been ravenous, almost frightening in her passion, as if she wanted not just to seduce him but to consume him.

What in the holy hell did Briggs plant in your head?

“Did you kill him?” Gundersson asked her, glancing at the prone body before returning to his surveillance. He’d seen shadows in the underbrush, but he couldn’t tell if the attackers were paramilitary or regular field agents of some kind.

“I just made him hurt,” she said. “Like he hurt my painting.”

Her gaze went to the chair, and Gundersson followed it. The painting was hidden behind the chair, leaning against the wall. He’d heard of people dying for their art, but killing for it?