Hybrid (47 page)

He had more blisters now, but he had a mask to cover the visible ones. They had started appearing across the backs of his hands, so he had donned a pair of gloves. His head was hurting, and he guessed that he had only a few hours left. The purified virus worked a lot faster than the native form, but not this fast. You needed a super-concentrated blast to get this bad this fast. He had almost finished distributing the three hundred special masks, and once he was done, he would stroll around the streets of Los Angeles dropping little pieces of death on his way to paradise.

A pair of security guards walked past him for the third time. He didn’t think they were looking for him any more than they were looking for shoplifters, but he didn’t want to take any chances. The infected masks would create a local hot spot of infection, but to seal the city’s fate he had to get the virus airborne, and that meant finding more places like the supermarket.

He smiled under his mask. The bulletin board had been a last-second decision, and a real stroke of luck. Each time the door opened, a blast of wind would hit it, carrying more of the virus into the air. The military had decided that instead of bringing in enough supplies to feed the entire city for a week, they would in the short run use the local groceries, so even after the curfew had started, the military would help spread the virus.

A pair of blond-haired children ran up to him and asked for three masks. Rider bent down to eye level, using them to shield him from a group of heavily armed soldiers who had just marched into the mall. They moved with a purpose, and Rider had a fairly good idea as to what that purpose was. He stayed crouched behind the children as a group of four soldiers passed within an arm’s reach of them. He jabbered on as to how to wear the special masks and made them promise to pass the masks on to someone else when they left the mall. When three more school-aged children appeared, he extracted the same promise from them and finally handed them four of the “special masks.” He straightened up and surreptitiously scanned the area. Four soldiers remained just to the inside of the door, and he could make out at least two more outside. A large group of officials and police breezed through them without as much as a glance. They immediately fanned out through the concourse and started searching the faces in the crowd. Rider felt the net begin to tighten. He crouched down to gather his things as a pair of uniformed officers approached. He had four more masks that he quickly stuffed into his shopping bag and then looked up to find two nuns standing in front of him. He had been so preoccupied with the soldiers and police that he hadn’t even registered their approach.

“Pardon me, but we saw you passing out surgical masks to the children and wondered if we could bother you for some. We care for eight foster children. They’re over at the . . .” She turned to point at a shoe store, and over her shoulder he saw with alarm that a woman was pointing him out to a group of police. A man in an isolation suit stared directly at him, and an old familiar pain split his head.
The German! He’s the one
who betrayed us
, he thought. The police began to run towards Rider, screaming warnings and alerts to the rest of the security force. They were at least a hundred yards away, and he figured that he had no more than ten seconds.

“Of course, Sister. I don’t have enough here, but if you could help me bring the rest out from their boxes inside, I would be forever grateful.” Rider pointed to the doors immediately behind him, and the two nuns started to follow him through the doors marked
Restricted Access
. “I just had an operation on my back and I’m not supposed . . .” Rider tried to distract their attention from the shouts of the approaching cops.

“Sisters, stop!” boomed Rodney Patton’s voice, and for a moment, everything in the mall did stop, as every eye turned towards the gigantic black man. He was holding up a large gold police shield in one hand, and a larger chrome handgun in the other. He was breathing hard, but had stopped running. A smaller man in a space suit continued towards them.

The pain split Rider’s head a second time, but he was able to look through it and see Rucker. An expression of confusion crossed his face. Only the German had been able to do that to him, and only the German had known their secrets. Rider closed his mind, just as he did when Klaus Reisch used to hurt him for fun all those years ago. A young Izhan Ahmed, years before he had become Joseph Rider, had tended to the German through his “illness.” He had been away in Rome, with Avanti, on that fateful night seven years ago. Less than a man, but more than a boy, he had come to Libya to learn how to fight, but the sheik himself had felt that young Izhan’s talents lay beyond martyrdom. He had become Avanti’s assistant and learned the ways of the West as the Ukrainian moved through the United States and Europe. He himself had told Avanti of the disaster in the Libyan Desert, and learned from Avanti’s reactions to this stunning blow how to accept the will of God.

The pain hit him a third time and Izhan and Rucker were suddenly sharing the same mind—that strange two-way connection now fully established. Rucker struggled to control him, but he fought back, just as he had done with Reisch. Rucker was stronger, though, a great deal stronger, and Izhan knew that it was only a matter of time before the American had full control. Rider grabbed the closer of the two nuns, pulled the handgun from his jacket pocket, and shot her in the small of her back. She screamed, and Phil’s attention was diverted just long enough for Rider to slip out of the mental stranglehold. Rider pulled the other nun through the doors and slid a crowbar through the handles. It wouldn’t stop them for long, and it wouldn’t stop Rucker at all. Already he had renewed his assault, but it was the best he could do. Through the pain, Rider grabbed the screaming nun by her habit and dragged her up the stairs.

“Move, damn you. Get up, or I’ll shoot you as well!” he yelled into her face after her habit had come off. She climbed to her feet, and he pushed her up the stairs.

“It’s bad,” Phil said to Patton as they turned Sister Ellen onto her side. “Definitely kidney, maybe spleen, but I don’t think he got the aorta.” He was applying pressure to the entrance wound with his silver gloves. “I have to go get him, and you have to take care of this.”

Patton was looming over him, sweat spilling off his forehead. They both knew that he was now almost certainly infected. “Go, I’ll take care of her.” They shared the briefest moment of mutual respect when their eyes met. “Take this and kill that son of a bitch, because if he comes down here alive, I’m going to kill him.” Patton passed over his weapon, and Phil could feel the pure hatred in his soul.

Phil tried to push through the doors, but the crowbar was securely fixed to the handles. He looked back at Patton and the fallen nun, judged that they were safe, and then blew the doors in. They rebounded off the far wall fifty feet away.

Izhan heard the explosion of doors and was thankful for the brief respite from Rucker’s undivided attention. He had reached the roof, and the nun ran out into the dazzlingly bright afternoon sun. They both shaded their eyes and stumbled forward. The chillers were on, and he followed their loud mechanical strumming. He grabbed the hem of the nun’s skirt, and she lost her balance. Izhan dragged her across the stone and tar roof. She wouldn’t be much of a shield against Rucker, but against bullets, she would do fairly well.

They reached the condensers, and a large column of steam shot a hundred feet into the sky above them. He dropped to his knees, and Sister Janine tried to crawl away as he pulled out the remaining seven sheets of infected paper. He swatted at her, and she responded with a vicious kick. The heel of her shoe opened a large gash across his still-masked face. As he looked back at her, he found that she was stricken by her own savagery. He took the butt of the gun and hit her hard in the face. Her nose broke with a crack, and she spun around into the gravel.

Rucker was at the door as Izhan tore his first sheet and tossed the pieces into the steam column. They shot high into the air, as the mental wrestling match resumed. Izhan tore the second and third sheets, but before he could launch them, he was wheeled around and slammed against the metal wall of the chillers, the fragments of the infected paper inches from the rising column. He tried to release them, but Rucker now had full control.

Phil pinned him there. Small pieces of torn paper began to fall from the sky and collect at Izhan’s feet.

Voices and the noise of heavy footfalls started coming up from the stairwell, and Phil slammed the door shut without taking his eyes off Izhan. The isolation suit was both hot and unnecessary, so he slowly stripped it off. A tiny slip of paper fell out, and it was caught by a tiny breeze that wafted it towards the pile in front of Izhan.

“That’s better,” Phil said, after stepping out of the pants. “I would like a moment of your time, so why don’t you get comfortable as well?” The mask dropped off Ahmed’s face and fell into the neat pile at his feet. “I can feel that you want to hurt me; you want it very badly.” Phil stared at Izhan while the younger man struggled to free himself from the invisible force that held him. “It’s interesting; I don’t think I’ve ever felt anything quite as strong. The depth of your hatred is truly impressive.”

“What do you know about hatred?” Ahmed sneered.

“Very little,” Phil admitted. Izhan could use the mental connection almost as well as Phil. “As you can see, I am capable of experiencing only a narrow range of emotions. The truth is that I can perceive your emotions much easier than my own.”

“You are an abomination in the eyes of God.”

“Are you trying to anger me?” Phil squatted down, using the chillers to shade him from the sun as he gently sorted through the life of Izhan Ahmed. He tried to resist, but he had no more luck freeing his mind than he did freeing his arms. “Where does all this hate come from?” Phil asked sincerely.

“Your Western society degenerates our faithful , , ,”

Phil silenced him. ”Yes, yes; our very existence offends the Almighty, and it is your duty to destroy us. It’s an excellent sound bite, but it’s all very trite and uninteresting.” Phil forced him to make eye contact. “You are an educated man, Izhan, and while lesser men may actually buy into that nonsense because they don’t know better, you do know better.”

The young man stared back at Phil, anger burning in his eyes.

“I really don’t want to hurt you, but I must know.”

“Why?” Ahmed asked defiantly and used every ounce of energy to close his mind.

“Honestly, I can’t tell you; I find your willingness to commit acts of extreme sacrifice and extreme violence compelling.”

“I’m not going to help you learn how to be human.” He spat back.

Phil stood up. “If that’s your decision.” Clumsily, just as Reisch had done to Phil, he reached into Izhan’s mind and sifted through every thought, emotion, and memory. The young man passed out almost immediately and with his loss of consciousness all resistance disappeared. For the first time in Phil’s life, he experienced the joys of childhood, the beauty of innocence, and the wonder of limitless potential. He felt the contentment of being a part of a family, of truly loving, and being loved by another in return. The fulfillment of being a part of something greater than one’s self.

He could relate to Reisch’s need to feed on the emotions of others; they were a powerful elixir, both intoxicating and revolting at the same time. The sensations and passions that defined Izhan Ahmed flowed into Phil, filling a void that until this moment, he didn’t know existed. Even the negative emotions, the pain and suffering, satisfied Phil’s sudden need. He pressed into the young man’s mind, trying to drain it faster; an alien desire to completely consume the life of Ahmed began to overwhelm Phil. The Monsters had finally gained control; it was this realization, and it could only have been this specific threat that stopped Phil from killing Izhan.

He broke the connection, and both Phil and an unconscious Ahmed fell to the gravel. He stared at the prostrate terrorist with his breath coming in gasps. He had come close to killing this man, and in the process, surrendering himself to his monsters. A fear as old as Phil rose in his chest; he imagined a small windowless room, and tall steel doors.