IENDE Page 12

  “Tell me what?”

  With his tone at almost a whisper, Mr. Sands moved his face a few inches from Victor’s. “That he killed his own sister? He thought her Dames were active—that she was under control. He attempted to deactivate them. But in doing so, he took the life of their host.”

  Kyle felt a shiver. Victor now seemed tainted, like a freshly opened can of beer that someone had dropped a cigarette butt into. Kyle didn’t want to hear this. He wished he could run out into the woods.

  “Between the two of you,” Mr. Sands said to the twins, “we’ll have all the knowledge we require. You weren’t easy to find, but Victor was sloppy.” Mr. Sands turned to Kyle and Remmie. “Victor was obsessed with the two of you. That’s what enabled this.”

  “Surely the government knows about the Dames,” Kyle said, “and they must have a plan, national security and all. I mean, how did you all know?”

  Mr. Sands smiled, showing a crooked incisor. “I used to work for the government, a branch you’ve never heard of—the Special Security Agency, SSA for short.” He snickered. “I worked in a place more secret than Area 51, or anywhere for that matter. The government has known of the Dames since the eighties. I coined the term Dames. Once the SSA figured out the machines were dormant, the powers that be rerouted funding to more important programs. They deemed the IENDE Nanomachines too dangerous to experiment with, yet harmless in their current capacity. Initially the SSA attempted to weaponize the little buggers, which was the program I was involved in. In the end they settled on a plan to destroy them, or at least to permanently deactivate them . . . a vaccine of sorts. They’re still working on that last I heard, but funds are always thin. I was actually laid off. Can you believe that?

  “Then I started a business,” he continued. “Maybe you’ve heard of it? Prebiquious Neural Enterprises . . . PNE? We make medical devices, particularly those intended to interface directly with the brain. We gave Doctor Victor a research grant.” Mr. Sands studied Victor’s expression again, then his gaze snapped back to Kyle and Remmie. “Did he tell you how he discovered the Dames? It wasn’t on his own.” He approached the large window and looked out. “He signed a nondisclosure agreement with PNE before I revealed to him the existence of certain unnatural objects residing in the brains of all humans. He’s known of the Dames for years. He was working for me . . . or did he neglect to mention that?”

  Victor remained silent, and Kyle assumed that meant everything Mr. Sands was saying was true. The whole situation reminded him of Lara Stilltrot, in pretty much every episode. There was always a confusing plot that ended with a twist, but you never really knew what was going on until the end. Kyle was perplexed, but more so curious what the twist would be. Or had it already been revealed?

  “Doesn’t matter now,” Mr. Sands said. “We have you.”

  A woman emerged from the hallway, her red hair in a ponytail, well-toned body beneath a tank top and black cargos. On her back was a forest-green backpack. She wore no makeup, didn’t need it. Her skin was smooth and pale, and her deep blue eyes were like shiny bayonets. Kyle had always liked redheads. His uncle had always told him to stay away from redheads. Why? But this girl appeared familiar.

  She was in the photo from the Caddy.

  At the site of her, Victor had the expression of a guy on a first date who’d just had his credit card denied. “Rachael . . .”

  “Hi Vick,” Rachael said, a provocative smile spreading across her face. “I guess you probably weren’t expecting us to meet under these circumstances, or any circumstances.”

  So Victor must have shafted this girl.

  “What’s going on here?” Remmie said. “Is this a joke?”

  Mr. Sands said to Victor, “You’re going to tell us everything you know.”

  “No,” Victor said. “You won’t let us live once you know.”

  “Nobody needs to be killed. Victor, you just need to broaden your perspective a little. I know you’re capable. Then you’ll thank me. You all will. But time is short.” Mr. Sands motioned with his finger again. “Tommy, Rachael, Rich, James—downstairs. Jack, check the rest of the house. We don’t want any surprises.”

  Mr. Sands reminded Kyle of his high school gym teacher who loved to tell people what to do, knew lots of crazy secrets about the school, but had an aura about him that kicked off an alarm deep down inside. You never wanted to be near the guy with nobody else around.

  Victor said to Rachael, “How could you do this?”

  “Hey, who doesn’t want to rule the world?”

  “I knew it!” Remmie said. “What, did you sleep with her and never call her back or something?”

  “Shut up. All of you,” Rich said.

  Rachael flung Victor a smile reminiscent of a cat over a wounded mouse.

  Rich and James pulled the twins to their feet and they began a stroll to the basement. Kyle felt like he wanted to fall to the floor and sleep, just to escape the moment. He was responsible for getting Remmie into this. Then he started to think about odds again. What were the odds that they would survive if he did nothing? What were the odds they would survive if he did something? What were the odds he would succeed? His hands weren’t bound, nor were Remmie’s. And if Kyle did do something, and succeeded . . .

  But what could he do? He was surrounded by well-trained henchmen with guns.

  He would do something given the opportunity. But what then, if he did? He suddenly entered a state of mind as yet unfamiliar to him. All emotion drained away. The danger he was in was real. It seized his consciousness like uncooked bratwurst on the tummy.

  Whatever action the next moment held would be whatever instinct dictated.

  TWENTY-THREE

  REMMIE FELT HER balance waver and grabbed the rail, nauseous, her leg muscles almost seizing as she stumbled onto the floor of the basement entryway, stopping herself an inch from Jimmy Page. No one said a word. No one cared. Her eyes narrowed as she scanned her companions—crazy twins, redheaded psycho, elderly narcissist on a power trip, and three prototypical meatheads. Then there was Anthony, the lying traitor—probably did it for a case of low-grade piss beer. And Kyle, a man—boy—she had known for barely a day, yet he was her only presumed ally. She was no longer frightened. She no longer cared to know the truth. She was over it. All she wanted was to go home, hug her dad, drink a green shake, and update her Facebook status.

  Rachael gripped Remmie’s shoulders from behind and nudged her forward. “Don’t get any ideas.”

  Remmie attempted to wrench free, but Rachael’s fingers bored like fangs, immovable. “You’re making a big mistake.”

  Rachael spun Remmie and pushed her hard against the wall. She gasped.

  “Rachael, enough!” Mr. Sands said.

  Rachael let go, panting, her obedient gaze resting on Mr. Sands.

  A slithering pressure remained where Rachael’s fingers had been. Remmie’s gaze searched out Kyle, who looked like a five-year-old watching a drive-in horror flick. Useless. She would keep her mouth shut, keep moving, and wait for something—the right moment. If Victor or Eli were given half a chance, they could take Mr. Sands’ henchman apart, she was sure of it. But how to create such an opportunity?

  Rachael said to Remmie, “Behave yourself and keep moving.” Her words were gentle now, like the voice of a hunter approaching a tame deer.

  “Please, Remmie,” Mr. Sands said. “Don’t make this difficult. You’re only prolonging things.”

  “Okay, I get it,” Remmie said, defiant, yet trying to sound agreeable.

  “You’ll soon be trusting me more than your twin companions,” Mr. Sands said.

  That was not saying much.

  Mr. Sands approached the gurney. “I don’t want to waste any more time. We’ve lost too much already.” He said to Victor, “You know what I want. We’re going to do a little experiment on Anthony. You’ll be assisting.”

  “What?” Anthony’s glazed-donut eyes stuck to Remmie.

  “You did this to yo
urself,” she said. But then she remembered that she was as gullible as he was. He should be punished, but not like this, whatever this entailed.

  Rachael placed her backpack on the worktable.

  Tommy sheathed his gun and grabbed Anthony by the shoulders. James grabbed his legs. Anthony flopped like a fish as they lifted him onto the gurney. James struggled to secure Anthony’s legs.

  “Grab his shoulders, I’ll handle his legs,” Tommy said.

  Striations formed on Tommy’s thick biceps as he compressed Anthony’s legs together, twisting like he was tying a garbage bag. Anthony wailed.

  “Stop crying or I’ll snap something,” Tommy said.

  Anthony’s body went limp, his mouth silent.

  Mr. Sands tightened a strap over Anthony’s midsection, his bound hands secured underneath. Remmie wondered if they’d even sedate him. Her eyes searched the room as her mind searched for ideas. She had to stop this from happening.

  “Relax, Anthony,” Mr. Sands said, “this will be a noninvasive procedure.”

  “I won’t do anything,” Victor said, in a hushed voice.

  “You still don’t believe the Dames aren’t active, do you?” Rachael approached Victor, performing a sultry nibble of her lower lip, her caustic stare diluted by a dim ember of desire.

  Victor looked off toward the far doorway where Remmie presumed Anthony had been kept. It was now propped open. “I don’t know what I believe any more.”

  “Is that why you—”

  “Left you?” He thrust his gaze back toward Rachael.

  She slapped him across the cheek. He didn’t flinch.

  “You need to take the emotion out of this, Rachael,” Mr. Sands said. “I think it better you wait upstairs.” He gestured to Rich.

  Rachael leered at Victor for another couple of seconds and then sauntered to the stairs. Rich followed her.

  Victor then spoke to Mr. Sands with a weigh-in confidence. “Why don’t you untie me so I can help you with your experiment?”

  “I fully plan to,” Mr. Sands said. “You’ll be activating Anthony. We have the little apparatus you were working on, the one you carelessly left at the warehouse. But don’t think of trying anything.”

  Victor appeared perplexed as he looked toward the backpack on the table. Remmie wondered what craziness was in that backpack.

  James handed his gun to Tommy, then approached Remmie. Her body twitched as his clammy hands touched her skin, his cigarette and body stench tearing at her nostrils. She floundered and he wrapped his arms around her, lifting her off her feet. She screamed.

  “Please, Remmie,” Mr. Sands said. “We only want to ensure Victor doesn’t try anything foolish.”

  Remmie slammed her head against James’s chin and kicked at his legs.

  “Goddamn crazy bitch!” he said.

  “Shall I bring Rachael back to handle you?” Mr. Sands said, now shouting.

  Remmie fell limp. James would be a better captor than Rachael. Then Kyle slipped her a curious wink. It was a signal of some sort. Whatever he had planned, she hoped it didn’t make things worse.

  Tommy grabbed a knife from his belt and handed it to Mr. Sands.

  Mr. Sands said to Victor, “Don’t let my appearance fool you. I’m well trained in hand-to-hand combat. I advise you not to try anything.” He sliced through Victor’s bindings.

  Kyle suddenly plunged like a rabbit fleeing a cougar and flipped the power switchover. The room went black.

  Brilliant!

  Remmie convulsed to get free of James—scratching, biting, kicking, flailing, screeching, to no avail. After what seemed a long time, the lights came back on. Tommy was on his back, barely stirring, his hand on his head. Victor was holding Mr. Sands down on the floor. Remmie noticed Victor now possessed a gun, tucked behind his back by his belt. Another gun had slid under the Universal training machine.

  “Rachael!” Mr. Sands said.

  Victor punched Mr. Sands’ upper lip and leapt off him. He then grabbed Tommy’s knife from the floor and cut Eli’s binds, then handed the gun to Eli. Footsteps could be heard from the stairs. Remmie continued to flop like a fire hose, her confidence fueled as she watched Victor gain the upper hand. James put her in a headlock. Eli shot a couple of rounds toward the stairs, snatching James’ attention. Then Eli turned the gun on Mr. Sands, who got to his feet.

  Eli said to Victor, “Get Remmie. I got you covered.”

  Kyle was still standing by the power switch looking like he’d just been caught fiddling in his aunt’s underwear drawer. Remmie hung by her chin in the V of James’ arm. He tightened his grip, compressing Remmie’s neck. Black licorice squiggles danced into her sight.

  “I’ll hurt her,” James said. “Or we can end this now. Give the gun to Mr. Sands.”

  “This way,” Victor said to Kyle, pointing toward the far doorway. “He won’t hurt her. There’s another way out—stairs.” He shoved keys in Kyle’s hand and nudged him in that direction.

  Kyle hesitated, looking at Remmie.

  Remmie watched Kyle with fading vision, willing a mental cry for help to him, the only remaining thread connecting her to home, normalcy, security.

  Eli took narrow steps toward James, gun in hand. “Let her go and I’ll let you go.”

  “Kyle, c’mon!” Victor said. “Start the Caddy, now, so we can all escape.”

  Kyle’s pleading gaze held on to Remmie, then the mask of emotion fell from his face. He turned and ran.

  Remmie felt a desperate, childlike whimper reach her lips. A part of her fell away, faith in the support of others, and she found an abandoned strength that pumped into her limbs, the instinct for self-preservation.

  Rachael and Rich burst from the entryway. The piercing blast of gunfire was like a switch that changed Remmie’s perception. Color, sound, and smell were no longer real. Eli’s body careened and flatlined to the ground, his gun bouncing from his hand, sliding under the long table. He grabbed his chest, curling his legs, thin trails of blood on the floor from his narrow movements.

  “No!” Remmie said.

  Rich stood confused, his gun hand trembling. “I was aiming for his arm.”

  Mr. Sands dove toward Victor and Remmie could see it in his eyes. He had a choice. Flight or fail. He spun his body, avoiding Mr. Sands like a running back, and sprinted toward the far door, slamming it behind him. And nobody took a shot. Because they needed him.

  Mr. Sands slammed into the thick door a moment behind Victor, rattling at the knob. It was locked. Victor had escaped. The lifeboat had set sail without her, and Remmie drowned in James’ vile stench.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  KYLE SCRAMBLED THROUGH the doorway on the far side of the basement. He slid his hand over the wall and hit the lights. There was a bed, presumably where Anthony had been kept. On the right was a door halfway ajar, a stairway.

  A gunshot echoed behind him. Remmie . . . His mind flushed of all thought and he tensed his leg muscles, ready to fire himself back to her. But Victor burst through the door, locking it as swift as the reaction time of a Top Fuel dragster driver. A crash emanated from the door, which rattled and bowed slightly inward.

  “The stairs. Hurry!”

  Kyle hesitated.

  Victor gave him a shove. “Move!”

  “Not without Remmie.” Kyle tried to run past Victor.

  Victor snatched Kyle by the shirt, pulling him and inch from Victor’s face. “We need to have that Caddy ready to roll, or we won’t make it. None of us.”

  Victor shoved Kyle again, causing him to stumble—lost, hesitant, unable to think through things. So he didn’t think. He barreled up the stairs, skipping steps along the way, his body and his will no longer under his conscious control. He was simply doing, watching himself as if he were watching it all happen on TV.

  They emerged on the side of the house, escaping to the driveway. There was a cargo van parked next to the Caddy, but no one around.

  “Victor—”

  “Start the car
!”

  Kyle slid into the Caddy and started the engine. Victor hopped into the passenger’s seat.

  “I’m not leaving without Remmie,” Kyle said.

  “We can’t help them if we stay.”

  “What about Eli? And I heard a gunshot.”

  “Nobody’s been shot, and they may still escape. But if not, Mr. Sands won’t hurt them.” Victor put his hand on Kyle’s shoulder, gentle but firm. “We have to escape. They’ll be safe as long as we’re at large. Better some of us free than all of us captured. If we get caught, the odds are not in our favor. The odds are not in Remmie’s favor. If we can escape, we can get them back; otherwise, we’ll have no chance. Mr. Sands is beyond us at the moment.”

  “Yeah, all right. But we’ve got to wait a minute. She might be right behind us.”

  “We have to go,” Victor said. “Too much time has passed.”

  Kyle—again doing without thinking—put the Caddy in reverse and spun the tires as he backed down the driveway, almost hitting a tree. He turned back the way they came, the Caddy bouncing on the weathered road.

  They had driven for about a minute when Victor said, “Stop.”

  Kyle compressed the breaks and the Caddy slid to a stop over the rolling gravel. Victor pointed to a subtle indentation in the brush along the road, tracks barely visible under the bleak overgrowth. Kyle pulled into the brush.

  “Follow it as best you can.” Victor seemed hesitant. “This’ll take us somewhere that Mr. Sands won’t know about. And we can change out this car.”

  “We can turn back.”

  “It’s too late, either way.”

  “Are you questioning your decision?”

  “It was the decision I made. There’s no time for second-guessing now. Everything’s a sunk cost.”

  “What’s with you and Eli?”

  “Now’s not the time, but I will tell you later. For now, you have to trust me.”

  “Yeah, you’ve said that before.” Kyle thought about what Mr. Sands had said. Victor had been working for that guy. Kyle wondered if Victor was using him for his own agenda, an agenda not unlike Mr. Sands’. Kyle scanned Victor’s face, searching.