Brian O'Grady - Hybrid

“Call me when you get something. Now let’s all get back to work.”

We’ve covered less than half of New York City, and there’s only twenty-five hours left , Oliver thought as he walked up Eighth Avenue, just north of Greenwich Village. Greg and the two FBI agents were getting a few hours of sleep after eighteen hours of fruitless searching. Oliver couldn’t sleep. The stress, the consequences of failure, and the thousands of voices that assaulted him from every direction prevented even a moment’s rest. At least he could get a decent cup of coffee here.

“Thank you, Mr. Reisch, wherever you are,” said Oliver, toasting the sky and sipping the hot coffee as New Yorkers by the hundreds hurried past him. He pushed his way through the crowd like a local and had made it almost all the way back to the hotel when he felt a hand slip into his overcoat and pluck out his wallet. He knew what was happening even before it happened, and as the hand cleared his lapel, Oliver grabbed the wrist and twisted. His wallet fell to the sidewalk with a plop, and so did the well-dressed man in his thirties, but with a scream.

“You’ve got to be kidding. How old are you?” Oliver asked the struggling man. He was probably thirty years his junior, but Oliver held his wrist with a grip that would bend steel. The flowing stream of humanity had parted, and a crowd had begun to form. Even to jaded New Yorkers, the sight of a sixty-two-year-old priest maintaining a wristlock on a prone man half his age was worth a moment.

The pickpocket let out a string of profanity aimed at Oliver, and several people yelled to get a cop. Oliver finally let go of the man’s wrist, but kept a foot on his back. It took less than a minute for a patrol car to pull up, and two of New York’s finest began to wade through the crowd — except only one of them was from New York.

“A cop ?” Oliver screamed three times, and the crowd began to back away from the suddenly irrational priest. “You disguised yourself as a cop? You fucking son of a bitch!” Oliver launched himself at the smaller of the two patrolmen. Several of the onlookers grabbed Oliver before he could reach the man’s neck. He was screaming obscenities that would make the pickpocket blush. “He’s not a cop!” Oliver finally yelled, and now the cop began to back away. “His real name is Essen Mohammed. He’s one of the terrorists.”

Oliver never knew how he got free. One minute he was being held by four men, and the next minute, there were over a dozen people sprawled out across the sidewalk. Mohammed had been thrown against a lamppost and had slid down onto the back of a parked car. He was alive, and Oliver was filled with a blind fury. Everything around him except Mohammed had disappeared, and righteous anger filled his heart. For a moment his mind was filled with glorious images of this man in the throes of a violent death; his agony feeding a hunger Oliver never knew existed. He stared at the wounded man and smiled. I’m going to enjoy this , he thought cruelly, and out of habit reached for his crucifix for strength. The feel of the well-worn metal broke the spell, and Oliver shrank back into his weary sixty-two-year-old body. A vision of Amanda and understanding both blossomed in his mind.

Oliver’s face softened and he approached Mohammed. The terrorist saw Oliver advancing and freed his weapon. Without warning or hesitation, he fired. Bullets tore into Oliver’s chest and shoulders; it was like being hit by a sledgehammer covered in velvet. People were frantically crawling and diving for shelter as the cop shot the priest over and over again.

Mohammed’s partner watched the man he had known as John Curry fire his weapon into the unarmed priest. He drew his.45 for the first time in his career, and after a moment of indecision, aimed it at his partner. “Put it down, John!”

Mohammed saw the gun and calmly resighted his aim at a real New York City cop. They both fired at the same time, and both had aimed well. The two cops hit the ground a moment after Oliver.

* * *

“So we’re down one terrorist, and light one priest,” the president said to Kyle Stanley. “Are they going to make it?”

“The patrolman’s fine. Bullet hit him smack in the forehead and ricocheted off. He’s going to have a hard time living that one down. The priest was shot several times at pointblank range. It’s a miracle they got him to the hospital alive.” Stanley didn’t want to add that the ER doc had already told him that Oliver’s wounds were far beyond repair, and that it was simply a matter of time. He had already been given the last rites. Stanley wanted to give him a medal.

“If he survives, he’s going to be one helluva security risk. That is, if we survive.” The president hadn’t meant it as a joke, and no one laughed.

“We have approximately twenty-four hours left and four more terrorists still out there.” Stanley had already told the president that four of Neser’s matches had indeed been part of the eleven, and that the rest had been found using the “missing” list. “But we are out of leads.”

“What kind of damage can four of these bastards do?”

The secretary of health and human services was better prepared than this morning. “We’ve made a number of assumptions, but worst-case scenario is 128 million dead. Best case scenario is seventy-seven million.”

“That doesn’t make sense. You told me we could treat this thing!” The president was shocked and angry. The secretary had called him two hours earlier and proudly exclaimed that one man had survived with standard medical treatment.

“We have medical resources for only about two million people. They will survive, but once the supplies are gone, people are going to die.”

“Stop saying that. I’ve heard it all day,” the president snapped. “What about this paper thing? Have we looked at it from that angle?” They had recovered six of the vials, all in various stages of reformulation, along with some unusual parchment.

Stanley said, “It’s not really paper. We think that after it has been complexed with the virus, it becomes stable. Light and heat then release the virus.”

All of them had visions of an army of sanitation workers dressed in isolation suits picking up every tiny piece of paper from coast to coast. “Anything else?” the president asked.

“The survivor, the one the secretary talked with you about earlier; he’s being sent to Los Angeles to try and do the same thing that Father Oliver did in New York,” said Kyle Stanley.

“Good, maybe we’ll get lucky a second time. What about the bastard who started all of this — Klaus Reisch?”

“He seems to have disappeared. We believe that he has a vial of virus, and a vial of vaccine. He stole them from Jaime Avanti,” Stanley answered.

“So, even if by some miracle, we manage to find these other four, we’re still not out of this?”

They had told Greg that Oliver was dying; only he didn’t feel like it. It hurt, it hurt like hell, but he could breathe. He could feel his heart beating. It was a little fast, but it was strong and regular. He moved his feet and hands, which seemed to work just fine. So, how was he dying? He was strapped to a board, and his head was taped to something, so all he could see was the bright light shining down on him. He tried to reach up with his hand and move it out of the way, but his arms were tied as well.

Okay , he thought, just a little nudge . He extended his mind towards the theatre light, and it swung on its rotating arm so violently that it snapped off at the joint. The aluminum and glass dome sailed across the room and exploded against the back wall. Everyone in the ER jumped, except Oliver. He was laughing through the oxygen mask. “Boy, I stink at this,” he said to himself.