Brian O'Grady - Hybrid

Slowly Phil began to push the German out of his mind. “I’m stronger than you, Klaus,” Phil said, panting into the weeds as the two took a break from their mental wrestling match.

“I suppose I’ll just have to kill you then, “Reisch said, disappointed his fun had to end so soon. He compressed the air around him and sent a shock wave moving faster than the speed of sound at the prostrate Rucker.

Once again, Phil was lifted off his feet and thrown high into the air; he struck the barbed-wire border fence and slumped into the dirt, his broken left arm impaled on a post.

“Still with me, Phil?” Reisch walked to the top of the embankment and stared down at Phil. He was conscious, but all his mental resistance had crumbled. The tingling in Reisch’s skin began to take on a burning quality, so he stepped away from Phil, but not so far that he couldn’t watch the pathologist die.

“Still here,” Rucker whispered. “She’s coming for you, do you know that?”

“I’ll be long gone, and you’ll be long dead by the time she gets here.” Reisch turned to his left in response to something unseen. “That’s plenty of time,” he said to the air.

Phil looked at Reisch with confusion written across his bloodied face.

“Before you die, can I ask if you can see my friend here?” Reisch turned and pointed at empty space. His expression changed to surprise an instant before his head exploded.

Phil blinked several times; his brain not processing what had just happened. For more than a minute he stared at the German’s mutilated corpse, waiting for it to reassemble itself, and then heard approaching footsteps.

“You forgot your pouch,” Amanda Flynn said, dropping a small black bag at the feet of what was once Klaus Reisch.

Phil stared speechless at Amanda, a faint glow of light framing her.

“I told you not to try and be a hero. I should just let you hang there awhile.”

It was the second time he had ever been in a helicopter, and once again, he couldn’t speak properly. His arm, along with a piece of fence post, was wrapped in a large bandage. Several of his ribs were broken, and by the way he was breathing, he was fairly certain that his left lung had been punctured. There was no doubt that he had also sustained internal organ damage, but on the whole, felt reasonably good with morphine circulating in his veins. Amanda sat next to him as the rotors began to turn. “How?” he whispered, but it was lost in the whine of the turbines.

She looked down at him, earphones tucked inside a ski cap. “Don’t try to speak,” she yelled.

Phil looked back up at her and the helicopter lifted off. He thought that she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. An hour ago I hated you , he thought.

You didn’t really hate me then, and you’re not really in love with me now , she thought in return. Can you sleep ?

No, I want to know what happened back there .

You didn’t listen to me and nearly got yourself killed .

I know that part, where did you come from. You were fifty miles away, how did get to me?

My Jeep was fifty miles away; I was only a few miles away, and if you had done what I asked, you would have driven right past me. Phil suddenly saw through Amanda’s eyes as she sat alone in the dark desert, waiting first for him and then for Reisch. Frustration, concern, and anger filling her mind as he turned the police cruiser around and closed on Reisch. I almost didn’t make it. If you hadn’t shorted out your engine you’d be dead now.

God watches out for fools and idiots , he thought, trying to fight the narcotic fog. What did you do to him ? The memory of Reisch’s head exploding replayed in Phil’s mind.

Very dramatic , she said, sharing the memory.

Phil was suddenly Amanda again and they were running up a dark and wet highway. From the top of a small hill, he watched as his body flipped through the air crashing into the fence, and then the memory froze and dissipated. Hey, we were just getting to the interesting part.

You don’t see the rest until you’re ready, Phil.

Emil St. Clair closed the first edition volume of Dickinson and waited for the intruder to come into the light. “I guess I won’t be finishing this tonight,” he said as the man dressed in black stepped between him and the fireplace.

“You failed, Monsieur St. Clair. More than that, you were exposed.” The accent was European, but the language was English.

“Yes, I agree with you on both accounts. Did you find the vials?”

“I have them. Perhaps you should have hidden them a little better.”

“I doubt that it would have made any difference. Still, I have appreciated the extra time.”

“We are not barbarian, just businessmen, ” the dark man said and fired two silenced rounds.

* * *

“So they just dropped him on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial with the name David Moncrief pinned to his jacket?” the president asked Kyle Stanley.

“Yes,” Stanley answered. It was a rather ignominious end to the life of the former French ambassador to Spain.

“I met St. Clair once. He was short and pompous.” The president didn’t add the word rich; it was an uncomfortable fact that St. Clair had been a financial supporter of his first presidential race. “Do we know any more about him and his seven friends?”

The Cabinet members only stared back at the president, and it was the director of the FBI who answered. “If I may, sir?” Stanley asked the attorney general. “Very little. We have made a formal request to the Russians to interview Igor Nachesha, but it seems that he has disappeared.”

“So this Group of Eight may be recruiting more than one new member,” the president said. “What do a French diplomat and a Russian oil baron stand to gain by attacking the United States?” He silently polled the room, but no one had an answer they wanted to share. “I’m guessing we will continue to try and answer that question?” All the heads in the room began to nod.

“Well, for now it’s over. This Reisch fellow is a red spot on a New Mexican road, and we have the virus and vaccine. There are no more new chapters or twists that are going to keep me awake at night, are there? ” He asked his advisors.

Once again the Cabinet remained quiet, and it was left to General McDaniels to answer, “Yes, it’s over.”

“Eight dead in L.A., 636 in Seattle, and God save us, more than nineteen thousand in Colorado.” The president dropped the report on his desk. “Christ, we’ve had shooting wars with fewer casualties.”

“It could have been a lot worse,” the secretary of health added.

“A lot worse,” Kyle Stanley whispered to himself.

“So how does this cure cancer?” the president asked the secretary.

“Not all cancers, and not even in everyone. Most leukemia, maybe lymphoma and a few others, but not all. Its biggest impact is going to be on stroke and spinal cord injury. If we can eliminate the lethal aspects of the Colorado Springs virus, we probably will be able to treat, maybe even cure them.”

“That is really good news; I’ll bet Dr. Avanti never dreamed that he would be extending human life instead of extinguishing it.” For a moment, he smiled. ”We still have an issue, though, don’t we?” The president’s Cabinet allowed him to take the lead; it was usually the vice president who led the weekly meeting. “A security risk that no one, not even the framers of the Constitution, could have anticipated.”

The attorney general and the president’s national security advisor exchanged a glance

“Any idea how many of. . I don’t even know what to call them?” The president panned the room for suggestions.