Chapter 21 – Bad News

John sat in stunned silence. Not only had they completely failed to find Paul but the tooth from the girl that had attacked him was indeed the same girl that had died from a deadly and invasive virus in the very lab complex that he now sat in.

He had sat at that very desk and read the report of her death and the complex problems of legalities of a living will.

She had died! There was no way she was alive. But if she was alive then so too might Paul still be. If Paul was alive then what was happening to him? He might be in pain.

What was worse was that the tooth carried saliva, which carried the virus, but there was extra DNA in the tooth sample. The extra DNA was viral.

The implications of this retro-viral discovery was staggering. In theory some one could be attempting to re-write human genetics. In John’s opinion, this was a very bad thought. Worse still, was the very bad thought that: it might be a natural phenomenon?

Whatever the truth it meant that something had to be done about it and soon.

He tried not to think about the cut on his hand. What if he had caught the virus that had clearly sent Margaret mad?

It was late and he knew he should be going home but he could not get his mind around the possible implications of these discoveries.

“What now?” He asked himself.

Jackson and the homeless guy had looked at each other for what seemed like hours before the homeless guy spoke up again: “You died,” he said, “you’s a member of the night crew now, ssson.”

“What do you mean?” Asked Jackson

The homeless guy looked at him: “got any sssmokes-ess?” he asked.

“No, tell me what you mean.”

“No smokesess, no ssstory.” Said the ragged man. “I’ll be right here collecting moonlight when you gets back.”

“What?” Asked Jackson. This old man of the streets was mad.

“Got smokesss yet?”

“No,” said Jackson, he hoped that this man did have answers. He hurried on.

Huso prowled the streets. The Cowboy was here and he would take this opportunity to have his revenge. After that, he determined, he would learn what the nature of the game was.

Up ahead was the Cowboy looking at him. Huso cursed silently. He had been too wrapped up to look properly. His pride had made him rash.

The cowboy cocked his rifle and pointed it at Huso.

Huso froze measuring the distance between himself and any cover and estimating his chances of getting to The Cowboy before a shot was fired. It did not look so good for his revenge plan.

“Talk, dog.” Ordered The Cowboy sharply.

Huso remained silent. He fixed his eyes on The Cowboy. The Cowboy stared him in the eyes and said nothing.

Without breaking eyecontact, The Cowboy demanded, “Tell me your target,” and with a menacing snarl, he stepped forward.

In a parked car, not so far away a man in a black business suit and dark glasses sat and watched.

The stare-out continued.

Huso knew that if he broke contact The Cowboy would fire unless he spoke up.

“I am here for Anabellus.” He said with a grunt and looked down. He hated The Cowboy for more reasons every year.

In a single movement, the cowboy slung his shotgun over his shoulder and launched a silver throwing-knife at Huso.

It landed square in his chest.

Huso looked down at the classy blade and said only: “You Bastered,” as his hands came up to his chest.

The Cowboy was gone.

Huso stood in the road. The pain was quite something and he vowed he would have his revenge. He palled at the knife but the backwards-facing spikes made agonising and slow work of the removal.

The man in black stepped from the car and walked towards Huso. Huso heard him and turned to see who approached. He saw the man in black and fear filled his heart.

Huso pulled at the knife it moved jerkily forward with an agonising ripping movement. Blood was running freely from Huso’s chest.

“You have failed. I will inform you masters of your end.” Said the man in black.

The blade ripped free and Huso instinctively launched it at the man in black embedding the blade into the man’s throat.

The man in black stopped in total shock. His hands reached for the blade as blood started to pour freely from a damaged artery.

The man in black blinked twice.

“God damn,” he tried to say to the empty street as blood poured from his mouth.

Jackson reached the twenty-four hour garage and walked in. He staggered up to the counter and fixed his eyes on the cashier.

The cashier stood with his eyes locked into Jackson’s. This ragged young man with the eyes of god himself it seemed was staring into his soul. He felt all desire melt away and stood without thought or feeling.

“Give me cigarettes,” ordered Jackson, “and food,” he added.

The man silently obeyed. Acting in a trance like state, he put a five hundred carton of cigarettes, several large packets of biscuits and several randomly selected pre-packaged sandwiches into a carrier bag.

Jackson handed him a number of additional items and then simply took the bag from the man. The man stood without reaction as Jackson left the premises only when another customer came in sixteen minuets later did the man start to realise something was wrong.

Jackson ambled along the road remembering the joy of smoking cigarettes. Something had happened, something mystical and magical. Something unusual had happened at the shop.

Jackson did not understand.

He hoped that the tramp would still be there. He needed answers to questions he did not understand

“Got sssmokes?” asked the voice in his ear. The voice rattled and tickled and hissed a little.

“Here.” Said Jackson handing him the entire open packet. “I didn’t have to pay for them.”

“Ssstole’d it did we?” Asked the tatty man rolling his “s” into long sounds.

“No. I did not get asked to pay.” Said Jackson

“Oh I sees” said the tatty man. “You’s is a charmer fledgling, how unusual.”

“What are you blithering about old man?” Asked Jackson. The hunger was returning.

“Hases you got a nice warm place an ol’ man can warm his handses?” asked the strange and tatty tramp. “I will tell you great secretses.”

Maggie walked along the street. A few streets ahead she knew there was the house where Peter lived. She turned a corner and The Cowboy placed a revolver barrel to her forehead and cocked the gun with his powerful thumb.

“Talk to me, fledgling.” he said.

“Fuck you!” said Maggie in a rage.

“Obey.” Shouted The Cowboy and knocked her clear across the road.

She landed heavily banging her head several times. Pain flooded her senses and for a few moments, she did not know what was real and what was pain. She started to cry uncontrollably and wiped at her face angry that her makeup was now ruined.

The Cowboy lifted the laughable black obsessed child from the floor and pulled he into his face: “Name?” He demanded.

“Margaret.” She sobbed.

“Who is your master, Margaret?”

“What?” she wept.

“Who made you? Who owns and controls you – you silly bitch.” Growled The Cowboy.

“My Lover?” she answered questionably trying not to cry again.

“Give me a break.” Said The Cowboy, “just tell me the god-damn-name.”

“Anabellus.” She sobbed.

“Thank you,” said The Cowboy, “Now I will do you a favour in return. Your silly goth-girl fantasies are going to get you killed.”

Maggie burst into tears again and hung there limply just crying.

The Cowboy muttered, “I have no time for this” and threw her back across the road.

Luke, Angelina, Jackson and The tramp sat huddled around the fire. The Tramp smiled, he liked it here. It was a good den, one of the better fledgling nests he had found in his time. It would be good to prime these children and send them out to stir things up.

He dropped his hissing street accent and spoke now with a clipped upper-class English accent: “Let me tell you what you really hunger for,” he said.

John left the office. His nerves were shot to hell and he felt he was coming down with the flu.

He decided that he was going to take a few days off. He reached to car and found a note.

“You are dieing. Don’t worry about it.”

“What the hell?” he asked aloud.

Paul awoke again. The air was stale in here. He punched at the box. It shook a little and he punched again and again, on and on slowly breaking the soft chipboard top.

After a while, he passed out.

The night drew to a close. The sun began to rise and the day began.

Inside the apparently deserted house, four individuals went to sleep.

The day carried it’s own worries and cares. Police investigated blood spilt liberally over the road and then other people came and hosed it away.

John slept most of the day and knew that he would have to take some time off from work.

Peter pined away the day in his room thinking only of the girl he could not have. He wrote several dark and moody poems of limited artistic worth during the day and ate pizza.

Other people did other things and the day grew old and the sun set and the night began.