Brian O'Grady - Hybrid

“You wanna take a break?” Greg asked after seeing Oliver again close his eyes in pain.

The two FBI agents in the front seat exchanged glances; they really didn’t have time for a break.

“No,” he said emphatically. So, they drove on.

* * *

Even with the help of the assistant director of the FBI, and then later by the Director himself, Phil was still in the same isolation unit he was yesterday. The intensive care unit upstairs had been repaired enough to re-accept patients, but nobody thought to move Phil, so he watched the activity of the emergency room through the walls of a glass prison, and paced the floor. Several nurses had asked him if he wanted something to help him sleep.

“No, thank you,” he said each time and continued to pace. He couldn’t help but think that this must be what life was like for those faces he had seen behind the tall steel doors all those years ago. He had been eight and was simply trying to get home, away from the testing and questions. He was different but not sick, and he didn’t need a hospital. Certainly not a hospital that hired employees so simple-minded that they had to use the same seven number pass code for every door.

Phil shook his head to bring him back to the moment. His memories had intensified, and he could see himself becoming lost in them. He had to remain focused. Maybe it was a lack of sleep , but he knew that wasn’t the problem. He was rapidly changing into something unknown, and his defenses against the unknown were poor.

Pieces of minds, dozens of them, resonated through his head. In some ways, his Monsters had prepared him for this, and he was quickly learning how to tune in or out the voices. But the fact remained that he was seeing and experiencing things that were fundamentally private, and that made his skin crawl. The thought that someday others would be able to invade his private world at will very nearly sent him into a panic attack. He doubted that what little sanity he had managed to create through nearly four decades would survive long in this new reality.

Control , he told himself. The watchword brought him back to pacing. They were coming for him; some part of his mind was processing the steady stream of voices and information, filtering out the unimportant. What was left formed an awareness of the world around him. He admitted that this was a potentially useful tool, and if this was the extent of the change, he could probably adapt to it.

He walked the length of his glass cage and felt the nurses watch him pace. It was a perfect metaphor for the other half of Amanda’s brave new world; another mind joined the watching chorus and Phil began to walk even faster.

It had been a long and busy day for Joseph Rider. The federal government was expanding the quarantine to involve the entire United States, and the County of Los Angeles now had less than twenty-eight hours before the curfew took effect. Like most large metropolitan counties, they had a detailed action plan already worked out, and Rider had worked hard all day implementing it.

Martial law had been declared, and in less than a day and a half, no one would be allowed on the streets except for emergency personnel and the military. The National Guard had been deployed; already, their Humvees and armored personnel carriers were taking up positions all across Los Angeles County. Police cars were driving up and down neighborhood streets broadcasting the same message, along with a countdown of how many more hours the citizens of Los Angeles had to prepare themselves for a week’s hibernation. Sirens wailed atop telephone poles as people rushed home to turn on their televisions and learn the latest developments; even the annoying emergency broadcast system had been activated. From sea to sea, the United States was shutting down for a week.

Well, not entirely. The military and police were excluded, as were all emergency service providers. Firemen, water and electric workers, hospital personnel, and other essential workers would be allowed limited access to the soon-to-be deserted streets. Some county workers, like the ones in charge of emergency management, would be given unfettered access as well.

Rider smiled. The Americans thought they were so clever. Clearly, they had stumbled across some information. Probably one of his fellow moles had been caught and been made to talk. Now the government was trying to protect its citizens by locking them inside their homes. Jeser had already anticipated this possibility, and Rider effortlessly switched to the contingency plan..

In a little over twenty-four hours, he would carefully apply a fine powder to several sheets of brittle yellow paper and then soak them in water for five minutes. The sheets would transform into what looked like ordinary notebook paper, and the deadly Hybrid virus would be safe inside tiny microscopic cocoons made of high-molecular-weight plastic, so long as they weren’t exposed to intense light. Rider would then simply distribute tiny bits of paper, each no bigger than a fingernail, to various places across the county, and the sun and wind would do the rest. It would take a day or two, and then the paper would begin to break down into extremely fine dust particles that were lighter than air. It was a much slower process, but in the end, it would find the hiding Americans.

He wondered how the others were doing. If everything had gone to plan, there would be one more Servant of God somewhere in northern California, and a third further up the Pacific coast. He only had a general idea where the others were supposed to be, and no idea how many more had made it this far. Three years was a long time to be perfect, and that was what was required of them. Still, there was enough redundancy built into the plan; they only needed eight for all the infected areas to converge and completely blanket the United States. He didn’t fear for himself. He was sure that a man in his position would hear the enemy long before they were close. Even if he was captured, the only thing he would regret would be his failure. The Americans could do nothing to him; he was already a dead man who long ago had made his peace with God.

Still, Rider would have preferred the original plan. He preferred the more personal touch. There was a certain satisfaction in knowing that you had personally killed the man who had just rudely brushed past you — along with his family, friends, neighbors, and city. Rider wondered if his streak of cruelty offended Allah. Certainly, the Prophet in all his battles must have drawn some personal satisfaction from the destruction of the unrighteous. Comforted by that thought, he returned to his computer and the plans for shutting down Los Angeles.

He was trapped by his own cleverness.

“Maybe that’s not such a bad thing,” Pushkin said as he floated through the wall that separated the kitchen from the living room.

Reisch watched his mentor drift a foot off the ground; a mist of silver sparkles trailed behind as he glided towards the big picture window. The late afternoon Colorado sun shone through Pushkin, and for a moment Reisch lost him in the bright light. “Are you real or just a product of my mind?” “If you knew the answer to that question, you would know the answer to a lot of other questions,” Pushkin said smugly.

“That’s true, but it would also tell me if all those people outside can see you through the window.” Now it was Reisch’s turn to be smug.

“They can’t,” the Russian said, unconcerned with the foot and automobile traffic in suburban Pueblo. He turned towards Klaus and began to condense into his usual form. “I think it’s a good thing that you’re now forced to rely on your skills and experience as opposed to your paranormal abilities. They’ve weakened you, and made you sloppy at the worst possible time.” Reisch didn’t want to argue, and there really was no point in denying the truth.